


From My Cold Dead Hands

by Mellow_Yellow



Series: Z-z-z-zombies! [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Fluff, Frottage, Hurt and comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Zombie violence and gore, end-of-the-world themes, references to mental illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 03:35:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4506219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellow_Yellow/pseuds/Mellow_Yellow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey and Ian (along with the rest of the gang) have left Chicago to the zombies in favor of a peaceful farm life in the country when soon enough, they learn that while the zombies are absent, they're not gone, and that human survivors may be the real monsters after all.</p><p>A sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1968969/chapters/4261278">Over My Dead Body</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From My Cold Dead Hands

**Author's Note:**

> See end notes for trigger warnings.

***

 

It was quiet as hell in the country. Mickey sometimes felt like the very air here absorbed sound like a vacuum. It was unloud. It was non-noise. It tripped on a high frequency through his mind. _Quiet, quiet, quietquietquiet_.

Quiet made it easier for some things. At the moment, from where Mickey lay crouched in the underbrush on a high edge of the Carbondale farm that gave him a clear vantage point of the surrounding fields, the quiet made him feel like he could hear for miles. There were night birds, insects wailing (and biting—he was getting ate to shit but he stayed frozen, fighting the urge to fidget), even distant rustling from the farmhouse where people were still settling in.

In theory, it also meant he would be able to hear any approaching zombies, even if there hadn’t been any stragglers sighted for months. He couldn’t get over the feeling of dread, though, and he’d stopped bugging the others about it. Instead, he had started slipping out by himself at night to watch, to wait. To listen. 

He thought he could almost hear Veronica or Kev soothing the babies back to sleep all the way back at the house, or the old farmers they lived with, Phil and Lonnie, arguing quietly over fiber or whatever old people fought about, or maybe Carl enacting some type of nefarious mischief they would discover in the morning. The subtle sounds of a full-to-bursting home unwinding for the night.

Ian was probably already asleep. He’d been up early helping with a broccoli harvest and although he would never admit it, working the fields tired him out faster than it would if he still had both hands. He was most likely twisted up in the sheets on their bed, hogging most of the mattress, probably drooling all over everything. Mickey smiled absently like a total ninny, then caught himself and frowned.

He adjusted the sight on the rifle in his arms restlessly, not because it needed it, just to stay awake. He yawned wide, his jaw cracking. Shit, he was tired. 

Off to his left, something crunched the leaves fallen down around the tree trunks. 

He froze, ears straining. The leaves crunched again, but it was going in the other direction from where he lay. It sounded light, like an animal. Zombies moved quickly but there was a heft to their steps, a dragging sound almost. Humans were nearly as loud, the few survivors who wandered this far south most likely starving and too desperate to bother with being silent.

After an endless stretch of pregnant silence, he relaxed his shoulders. 

Quiet also made it easier to freak himself out, Mickey was learning. He’d gone most of his life barely ever leaving the confines of his neighborhood, the constant cacophony a comforting white noise. It was soothing, the wall of sound, cars honking, ambulances going by, people shouting at each other, the reverberation of the train going over the tracks at the end of the block.

Getting used to the lack of noise after the zombies had been its own type of slow acclimation. It gave Mickey a lot of time to think. He didn’t love it. He wished he was asleep, wrapped up tight with Ian, dead to the world.

But someone had to keep an eye on the property at night. Even if it meant sitting in the dark quiet while anxious thoughts sped around his head like stress hamsters. There were too many things to worry about. Zombies, other bands of survivors roving about, where the hell Lip might be, supplies and the harvest running low, guilt that Mickey wasn’t up to handling even a quarter of, always the fucking _guilt_.

If he wasn’t careful, he thought about Mandy.

He did his best to be careful. 

But it was while he was being careful guarding his thoughts that his vigilance wavered, and gangly redheads managed to sneak up on him and startle him to death.

“I thought I’d find you out here,” Ian said softly, suddenly beside him.

“Jesus _fuck_!” Mickey jerked, elbows flailing. “ _How_ —” During the day Ian couldn’t walk through the kitchen without taking a pot, two cups and a plate of eggs down with him (which had happened that very morning), yet he somehow turned into a ninja after dark. 

Mickey’s fingers tightened instinctively on the trigger before he caught himself. The angle was all wrong anyway with the rifle mostly trapped under his body, but that didn’t stop his heart from pounding at how close it had been.

“Goddamnit, Ian,” he panted. Mickey tossed the gun softly down, letting it clunk  onto the grass, a horrible alternate reality of the last few moments playing on a loop in his brain. 

Meanwhile, Ian was flopping onto his belly, watching as Mickey tried to manually stop his hands from shaking.

“What are you doing out here?” Ian asked, tone breezy, scratching idly at his nose. 

Mickey spluttered wordlessly for a moment, shock shifting slowly into outrage. “What the _fuck_ , Ian? I could’ve killed you, why in the hell would you sneak up on me?” His skin prickled at the thought, how easy it was to make a mistake like that. How easy it was for _Mickey_ to make that kind of mistake. He’d done it before. He swallowed thickly. “Motherfucker.”

Hunkering down on his elbows to mimic Mickey’s position, Ian rolled lightly so their shoulders bumped. “Hey.” His voice was soft, almost a hum in the night. “Sorry.” 

Heart still pounding, Mickey didn’t feel like powering down right away. He grumbled under his breath, mostly profanity. Fucking Ian. Why couldn’t he be more _careful_.

Ian waited him out. He rubbed the back of his wrist, the right one that ended in nothing but a stump, over his forehead. It was muggy out here. 

After a long minute, he reached over with his right hand, the broad palm wrapping around Mickey’s fist, covering it where it lay clenched on the ground near his rifle. He rubbed at Mickey’s knuckles, tracing the tattoos there lightly. 

“Hey,” he said again.

Mickey exhaled slowly through his nose and tilted just enough to catch Ian’s eye. Ian was watching him, green eyes almost sparkling under the moon, the expression familiar. He was always worried about Mickey these days. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He bent closer and pressed a kiss, firm, lingering, to Mickey’s temple. Mickey blinked, eyes closing at the contact. He pressed into the touch. He felt calm again. 

When Ian moved back, Mickey opened his eyes. “What are you even doing out here?” he asked, going for stern and ending up  whiney instead.

Ian smirked as he turned to look out at the field too. “I was coming out here to ask you the same question.”

A huff of air escaped Mickey’s mouth. “We need patrols.” 

“Mick.” Ian sounded tired. Mickey could relate. He was also incredibly tired. The only thing was, whenever he laid down at the end of the day, after long shifts of helping in the fields and fixing things around the house and making plans, endless plans and contingency arrangements and speculations and backup strategies with Veronica and Fiona (who had stepped in to fill Lip’s role as co-chief planner, and was unsurprisingly adept at bossing people around) in the tiny kitchen, no matter how his bones ached in fatigue, he couldn’t fucking sleep.

“Mick, we talked about this.”

Mickey stayed stubbornly quiet. Ian wasn’t wrong, they had talked about this, but Mickey was hoping if he just didn’t engage, Ian would let it drop eventually.

“If you think there’s a problem with security, then you bring it up to the group. You don’t just take it upon yourself to watch over the whole property, alone, in the middle of the night.”

Mickey stewed in silence. Then, grudgingly, “Veronica thinks I’m being paranoid.”

Ian snorted. “Dude. We’re living at the end of the fucking world. I don’t think anyone can really be called paranoid anymore.”

Which made sense, Mickey could admit. But that wasn’t all of it. He let Ian reach up and rub at the tense, knotted muscles at the base of his skull, reluctantly soothed, and tried to figure out how to say it. 

Veronica had kids now, was the thing. Her and Kev, it was clear the future weighed heavier on them. With a whole new generation there was more pressure on what would happen in ten years, or twenty, or fifty. Fiona worried about it too, and even though Liam was still just a peanut, something about the Ball babies made it real. When Ian joked (kind of) about the end of the world, Mickey could see Veronica wince. He could feel her reluctance to acknowledge that there was still danger, that even this far away from Chicago or St. Louis or the other cities that drew hives of zombies like living, pulsating swarms, that they weren’t safe. That her babies had no future. 

So Mickey didn’t have it in him to drag her down when she wanted so desperately to believe things were adjusting to normal again.

He didn’t realize he’d fallen silent for so long until Ian shoved at him hard enough to roll Mickey half onto his back, the rifle getting caught up and rolling with him.

“Yo, easy with the _gun_ , man, it’s _loaded_ —” Mickey scrambled to set the rifle carefully to the side.

Ian smirked, propping himself on his elbows over Mickey. Mickey sighed, letting Ian loom above him. Something about being held still, slightly compressed, made Mickey’s mind go blank. He reached up and brushed his thumb at the thin, shadowed skin below Ian’s eyes.

“You should get some sleep.” He kept his tone gentle. Ian hated it when anyone implied he needed to take it easy because of his injury. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.” 

Ian dipped down to brush his lips softly over the tip of Mickey’s nose. “I can’t sleep knowing you’re out here.” He shifted so he was fully aligned on top of Mickey’s body, letting all his weight fall. He dug a knee between Mickey’s thighs and ground down, a smirk rising at the groan the movement drew from Mickey’s mouth. 

Mickey let his head fall back, neck stretching taut. He bit his lip, widening his legs to cradle Ian with his hips. “I need to keep watch,” he muttered, already too distracted by the warm denseness of Ian lying on top of him to really fight to go back to the tedium of patrol. He started rocking up into Ian instead, lightly, without really meaning to. It just felt too good.

Ignoring Mickey’s token protest, Ian nosed down his throat, nipping at the tendon before burying his face in the dip of Mickey’s shoulder. He wrapped his arms around Mickey’s back, hugging him tight with his whole body.

“I could do this forever,” he mumbled, mouthing at Mickey’s skin.

“What, hug me like a nerd?” Mickey asked, trying to sound arch but failing when Ian surged forward, driving the hard thickness of his cock, evident even through his jeans, up against Mickey, making Mickey gasp, then squirm, trying to hump up into the friction. 

Ian’s hands were everywhere, rubbing roughly up his sides, down to grab a handful of Mickey’s ass and bring him up. “You’re the nerd,” he huffed, biting lightly at Mickey’s collarbone. 

“No, you,” Mickey argued, mindless. It felt like they’d just started rubbing against one another and he already felt hot, restless, like his skin was burning under his thin, holey T-shirt.

With a laugh, Ian pulled back to kiss Mickey roughly, smearing their lips together, sucking his tongue sloppily before pulling off with a wet sound. Mickey could feel his mouth hanging open, hear his own ragged breathing. Even in the dark, he could see the red circles rising high on Ian’s cheeks. He was smiling, staring down like Mickey was beautiful or some shit. He felt himself blush, twisting in embarrassment. 

One corner of Ian’s mouth went up. “Would you stop arguing and let me get you off?”

Mickey huffed, trying to sound impatient rather than breathless. He nodded. Ian chuckled softly, swooping back in to capture his mouth.

They kissed for several long, hot, syrupy minutes, the night sounds around them drifting to the background as they both rocked lazily against one another, Mickey’s rhythm building faster first. He brought his knees up, holding Ian’s thin hips tight, and when Ian pulled away too far to get a better angle to thrust down he slipped a leg up, wrapping an ankle around Ian’s lower back. 

“Mickey,” he groaning, looping his arm

“Dude, get my dick out, I’m not coming in my jeans,” Mickey said urgently, knowing it was only a matter of a minute or so here.

“So romantic,” Ian murmured, obligingly snaking his hand down to unzip Mickey’s pants.

“They’re my only jeans, I—I, _shit_ , they’re always stiff no matter how much I wash them after.” Mickey wasn’t really sure what he was saying, he was just _saying_ things, all the blood in his body having drained south, away from his brain, down where Ian was jerking him roughly, callused hand tracing the smooth shape of Mickey’s cock.

“Man, laundry talk,” Ian said hotly, breathing into Mickey’s ear as he paused to slip his own dick free of his sweatpants, “gets me going, make it dirty.”

It wasn’t coordinated or elegant, it was just the two of them, rutting feverishly together, still mostly clothed, Mickey wrapped around Ian as much as he could, letting Ian manhandle his body with one arm, holding himself up with a shaky elbow as he fucked  down against Mickey, their cocks rubbing together with a rough, dry friction that was almost too much but Mickey couldn’t bring himself to care, not when he was this close to coming, _fuck_. 

He jolted roughly, arms and legs jerking Ian so he stuttered and fell heavily onto Mickey’s chest, making Mickey woof out a breath. Wet warmth seeped between them as Mickey moaned, his skin oversensitive. Ian licked and sucked at Mickey’s neck, like he couldn’t get enough of the way Mickey tasted, chasing his own orgasm as Mickey slowly came down.

The wet come on Mickey’s belly gave Ian some extra slick and his movements became faster, sweat dripping from his chest onto Mickey.

He reached over to hold the end of Ian’s empty wrist in one hand, squeezing lightly, holding him steady.

“Come on me, Ian,” Mickey murmured, exhaustion creeping in, “do it, you look so good, jesus, come on.”

Ian grunted, swearing, and came on a sudden jerk, come painting Mickey’s belly in streaks.

“Fuck, ow,” Ian winced, pulling back. He cupped at his softening cock, flopping on to his back at Mickey’s side. “Christ, man. I think we almost started a friction fire.” 

Mickey smacked weakly at his side, his hand resting on Ian’s chest. “You started it.”

They stared up at the stars, catching their breath. Mickey didn’t feel nearly as anxious anymore. Now he just felt like he was about to drift away. 

He heard Ian slap at his arm, then swear. “Fucking mosquitoes, man. I forgot to put any of that herbal shit Debbie made on me before I came looking for you.”

Mickey made a face in the dark. “It smells like salad dressing and flowers.” He avoided using it too, to his own peril. He was just going to end up using the same vinegar she put in the repellant to deal with the itchy bites the next day.

“Man, she uses vinegar and lavender for fucking everything,” Ian groused, moving restlessly on the ground. “The worst thing that ever happened to us was the day she started planting lavender in the garden.”

“Well, aside from the zombies.” 

It was a dumb joke, but Ian still threw his head back and laughed, the sound hearty and echoing in the night. It was too loud, and made Mickey nervous about attracting predators, but it was nice hearing Ian laugh easy for once. He couldn’t really bring himself to make him stop.

When he quieted, he sat up in the dirt. He wiped idly at Mickey’s chest, clearing away the come and wiping it on the leaves beside him.

“Gross,” Mickey said. The leftover was just going to flake and get itchy on his skin now.

“We can wash off in the house,” Ian replied, pointedly. He pulled himself to his feet, then offered his hand to Mickey.

Mickey resisted for a long moment, then rolled his eyes. “Fine, you fucking nag.” He let Ian pull him up, grabbing his rifle. He zipped up his pants and followed Ian back to the farmhouse, to what felt like the center of their world anymore. 

It was hard to tell what the rest of the world was up to from down in Carbondale. Chicago seemed worlds away. They had no way of knowing if things had changed, if there was more zombies or less, or some organized human movement to combat them. The occasional survivors that drifted by the farm rarely had any real news, which left Mickey and Ian and their families with nothing to do but carry on, wait it out, until something changed. 

Inside, the house was silent. Everyone else must be asleep by now. Ian led them into their room, a small side cubby off the dining room with just enough space for a bed. It was nearly too dark to see now without the light from the moon and they stumbled as they undressed, Ian getting a towel wet with some water from a pitcher to wipe at Mickey, smirking as he whined at the cold. It felt routine, like they’d lived this way their whole lives, not just since the zombies.

Veronica had mentioned that she and Kevin were thinking about staying on the farm forever, that even if the government miraculously emerged from whatever underground bunker they were holed up in with a Master Plan, that they liked it here. It was good for the girls. It felt safe.

To Mickey, nothing felt safe. Everyone else seemed to be settling down, and he didn’t want to ruin the cautious contentment, so when he felt on edge he just patrolled by himself. That way everyone was safe, but they didn’t have to worry about it either. Mickey could do that. He was already worrying about everything anyway, what was one more thing?

“Come on back, space cadet,” Ian murmured into the nape of Mickey’s neck. They were wrapped up under a light sheet, skin cool and moist, not that they minded. Mickey shivered.

“I’m back. I’m here.”

Ian took a moment to resettle, pulling Mickey tighter so his ass fit more smugly against Ian’s pelvis. Neither of them were hard again yet, but it felt nice anyway. After a moment, he said hesitantly, “You can talk to me about stuff, you know.”

“I know,” Mickey said. He held on to Ian’s wrist, right at the end where it turned abruptly into nothingness. Ian didn’t mind being touched there, but Mickey was always filled with a heavy sense of desperation when he did.

“If you’re worried about something I want to help you. You’re not the king of Carbondale, we all trust you but we didn’t vote you into power. We’re in this together.”

Mickey snorted softly. “Well technically, I don’t think King of Carbondale would be an elected position.”

Ian squeezed him tight around the waist in rebuke. “You know what I mean. We don’t expect you to take care of everything.”

Mickey didn’t have anything to say to that. He knew they didn’t expect him to, but he also knew that if it wasn’t for his plans in the beginning to stay holed up in the neighborhood, or his asshole father coming back and destroying their supplies, if they’d left sooner, or worried about just themselves and not the whole neighborhood, if, if, if—maybe things would be different. Maybe Mandy would be alive.

Some self-loathing part of Mickey really did think he owed it to them to take care of everything, if he could. 

He felt immediately cold. His mind shut down like drawing a shutter over the window. Squeezing his eyes shut, he curled up slightly, drawing his knees up so he was more tightly cradled against Ian’s body.

Behind him, Ian sighed, troubled again. Even if Mickey didn’t tell him all his worries, Ian seemed to pick them up by osmosis anyway.

 

***

 

Mornings on a farm came far too early for Ian’s liking. Even if he wasn’t assigned to any early morning jobs, it was still impossible to sleep through the sounds of a dozen people waking up, heading to the kitchen, getting breakfast, arguing, laughing.

Ian, never a morning person even before the world ended, did not appreciate it.

He blinked slowly, squinting at the sun coming through the windows because both he and Mickey consistently forgot to shut the blinds every night. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know that Mickey was with him, half-sprawled across Ian’s chest, his body a warm, steady weight, snoring softly against Ian’s clavicle. He hated when he woke up and Mickey was already gone. He hated it even more when it was after dark, like the night before, when he’d startled awake to see he was alone and the house was dark and he knew Mickey was outside, obsessively watching over the farm like a neurotic sheepdog, alone and refusing to let anyone in on his anxieties, not even Ian.

He squeezed lightly at Mickey’s waist, feeling the delicate shape of his hipbones. Winter had been rough, and the entire gang was looking lean and raggedy for it. Mickey took up less space in Ian’s arms now.

Ian's left hand itched, like it always did in the morning. Even over a year later, the damn thing still itched, somehow, even though it wasn’t there anymore. Ian resisted the urge to swipe his right hand at the empty space at the end of his left wrist. It never helped, and the motion always made him feel bumbling and pathetic.

In the kitchen, he heard Fiona and Veronica bickering over something, both unforgivably shrill for this early in the morning. Distantly, he heard the sound of a rooster and some chickens, the familiar lowing of one ornery cow they had named Cow demanding to be milked. Beyond that, there was nothing. It had taken Ian a long time to get used to living here, after the loud apocalyptic sounds of gunshots and zombie snarls and shrieks of fear and pain.

He looked down at Mickey’s messy black hair where his head rested just below Ian's chin. Ian pressed a kiss to the bedhead, the wild hairs tickling his neck, and dragged the tips of his fingers up the bumps of Mickey’s spine in a slow pass.

Mickey grumbled, just starting to awaken but fighting it, and squirmed down a little bit. 

“Mick,” Ian whispered, circling his arms more completely around Mickey’s body. He wasn’t as stocky as he was even a year ago, and it made Ian want to cuddle him to himself more than ever. But then, they were both comparatively skinny after the last few months. “I think we slept in. Time to get up.”

It was a shameless ploy, since time didn’t really exist anymore, aside from the hours you could tell from the sun, a skill Ian hadn’t really mastered yet anyway. Mickey’s eyes shot open as though on command anyway.

“What?” he said hoarsely. “What time is it—shit.” He struggled to pull out of Ian’s arms, twisting to look out the window. Then he stilled, swinging back around to give Ian a tired, withering look. “It’s barely seven, you dick.”

Ian marveled at Mickey’s ability to estimate the time so accurately. It made Ian pull Mickey down firmly against him, curving around him like a shell with Mickey’s back to his chest. “No it’s not, its late,” Ian said softly. He leaned around so he could kiss Mickey’s nose. Mickey frowned half-heartedly. “You slept in. You’re a bad farmer.”

“And you’re a pain in my ass, man,” Mickey said, but he was smiling now, still sleepy but definitely edging toward more actively interested.

“ _Yeah_ I am,” Ian shot back, snickering, kissing the exasperated huff out of Mickey’s mouth as soon as he made it. They both tasted like morning breath but Ian was used to it. All they had to brush their teeth with anymore was baking soda and peppermint oil. Everyone was operating at adjusted levels of hygiene these days. 

He began rutting lazily, building pressure and heat, Mickey’s mumbles and moans growing more breathless as he got going.

“We have to get up,” Mickey protested weakly, even though he was reaching back to grip hard at Ian’s hip.

Ian hushed him, biting the lobe of his ear. He curved more tightly around Mickey’s body, hips thrusting tighter with the limited range of motion. His cock drove along the seam of Mickey’s thighs, bumping his sack and they both moaned.

“Do you want—” Mickey asked breathlessly, gesturing toward the jar of natural lube they’d been using where it rested on the bedside table.

It was a nice idea, but felt like a lot of work right now. Ian was already close. He licked his palm and wrapped a hand around Mickey’s cock, setting up a steady rhythm. “No, this is good.” He kissed Mickey’s cheek compulsively, dry-fucking a little faster into the tight crook of Mickey’s thighs, throwing a leg over his hip. “Is this good? Is it?” He kissed Mickey’s cheek again, loving how Mickey flushed, feet twitching.

“God, _yes_ , it’s good, so fucking _chatty_ ,” Mickey grumbled peevishly. He arched his back, ass pressing back, bare skin hot and rubbing together. He twisted his head back anyway, kissing Ian wet and clumsy, “fucking love how you feel,” his voice deeper, no trace of impatience now.

Ian grinned, biting Mickey's bottom lip. It was possible they had more sex now than they ever did. Part of it was due to the added privacy, but really, Ian craved it more now, needed the closeness, the easy relief of knowing that while things were a mess in the world, they’d always have this, the heat and ache and rush of making love.

He felt his balls tighten, his skin feeling lit up and bright. It was hard to believe, that they could have this, that things could slide so horribly sideways and they still had these mornings just the two of them, tangled in sheets and morning sunlight.

Burying his face in Mickey’s neck, Ian held himself up on the elbow of his bad arm and used his right to jerk Mickey off, still sleep and with limited finesse. 

“Come on, man, faster,” Mickey mumbled, making no effort to help jerk them both off aside from wrapping an arm back around Ian’s neck.

“Lazy,” Ian rebuked him gently, biting at the cord of Mickey’s neck.

It was languid and easy and it didn’t last very long before Mickey’s face went splotchy then pink then red as he gasped and yelped a little as Ian tightened his fist, Mickey’s head thrashing on the pillow.

Ian couldn’t help but lean in to bite at his mouth, pull his bottom lip between his teeth, suck on his tongue, his own hips working roughly as Mickey went still, crying out loudly against Ian’s mouth, coming on Ian’s fingers and across his own belly. He fell limp as Ian brought his hand to his own cock, using Mickey’s come to slick the way, lasting a dozen or more strokes before he was mouthing against Mickey’s temple and coming as well.

He collapsed, trying to fall only halfway on top of Mickey, and they gasped wetly into the sudden silence of their bedroom.

Ian grinned, slightly stupid, the sweat cooling on his skin. “Well, better get up and milk the cow,” he said after a beat, still panting. He didn’t make a move.

Mickey threw an arm across his chest anyway, holding him weakly back. “Jesus, man, at least let me catch my breath or some shit.” He cuddled closer, holding Ian’s amputated wrist tightly, a habit he’d been falling into lately. Ian didn’t mind it.

Eventually, though, the call of the farm was too great. Mickey wiggled free and leaned over the side of the bed, grabbing for the half-full pitcher on the floor, scrambling for a spare cloth to haphazardly clean them both up.

“We’re going to smell like spunk all day,” he complained, but he couldn’t seem to hold back his grin when Ian poked him in the side.

“Guess we’ll just have to go swimming later,” Ian said, leering.

“The creek's cold as balls still man, come on,” Mickey protested.

They rolled out of bed, pulling on shirts and pants, still arguing over the temperature of the river nearby. Ian didn’t think the water was warm enough anyway, but he couldn’t resist winding Mickey up as they left their room for the main part of the farmhouse.

In the kitchen, V was watching Fiona grumpily pour herself a cup of hot water with mint. It was the most recent experimental substitute for coffee, and nobody was in love with it. Veronica smirked and Fiona raised an eyebrow as Ian and Mickey came through the doorway.

“You,” Fiona said, pointing at Mickey, “are _so fucking loud_.” She turned to Ian. “I feel like I should be giving you a high five or something, if it didn’t gross me out so much to think about my little brother having sex.”

Ian snickered, and beside him Mickey blushed, immediately trying to cover it with bluster.

“Shouldn’t you be out checking on the back field? There’s root vegetables out there that won’t harvest themselves,” he said, scowling. Ian nudged him with his shoulder, and Mickey shoved him back, still flushed and combative. It was probably Ian’s favorite look on Mickey, although he would never tell.

“Jeez, shouldn’t you be more relaxed after all that?” V asked, rolling her eyes.

Fiona stood up, gesturing vaguely in the direction of their bedroom and draining her cup in one go. “Me and V swapped with Iggy anyway, we’re on kiddo duty today.” She walked backward toward the door to the back building where all the littler kids slept. They tended to cluster together at night, like a litter of puppies.

“That’s not on the rotation!” Mickey shouted after her, but it was too late. Fiona had already left, Veronica laughing.

“We need to talk about fixing the fence by the gate,” he told V, pointedly.

Veronica shrugged. “I have to go help Fiona now, we can talk later,” she said, and was already walking out the door before Mickey could stop her.

He huffed, turning to Ian. “What the fuck’s the point of a job rotation if no one fucking follows it?”

Heading to the pot of boiling water on the stove, Ian shook his head, pouring them both a mug. It took longer one-handed, but he was getting better at it. “Everyone appreciates the time you spent putting together the chore wheel—”

“It’s not a chore wheel, it’s a _job rotation chart_ , why does everyone keep calling it a chore wheel?” Mickey bit out.

“—But you need to loosen up about it, man,” Ian went on, unperturbed. He stuck a sprig of mint in each mug and handed one to Mickey, who took it, still frowning. “We’re not exactly at high alert anymore. You can power down about some stuff.” He took a sip of the mint water and grimaced. “This tastes like shit.”

“It’s better than that elderberry nonsense, at least,” Mickey retorted, gulping his down stoically. The coffee and tea reserves had bottomed out in December. Now they were making do with what they could cobble together from Debbie’s herb garden. It was hit or miss.

“Better than a punch in the head, I guess,” Ian said with a shrug.

Mickey rolled his eyes. “What does that even _mean_ , man, seriously.”

“Something Frank used to say.” Ian blinked, surprised at himself. He hadn’t thought about Frank in months. He wasn’t sure what had sparked the memory now. It didn’t feel like an especially good omen.

Mickey harrumphed and they leaned against the kitchen counter in silence, drinking their foul mint water, Ian’s arms and legs still loose and tingly in a post-orgasm haze. They leaned against one another carelessly, but Ian still bit back a tiny smile at the easy affection.

When Ian was finished with his mug, Mickey took it and set it in the sink.

“We better make a move,” Mickey said, nodding out the back door. “Phil and Lonnie are probably already out there, complaining that we’re late.”

Ian couldn’t help but grin ruefully. Phil and Lonnie were the original farmers on the property the Gallaghers and the Balls and the two Milkovich brothers had more or less commandeered six months ago at the end of their odyssey out of Chicago. Both men were old and crusty and grumpy as all hell, and made a lot of noise about how all the city folk encroaching on their property had been the real downside of all this zombie noise, never mind the death and societal destruction.

But it was also clear they were too old to farm most of the land by themselves, and the sudden appearance of eight able-bodied young people had been something of a windfall for them. While the handful of other survivors had slowly dwindled as everyone but their farm had left to go farther south for winter, Phil and Lonnie had been constants in their new little universe.

They had also more or less taken Mickey and Iggy under their wing, to Ian’s endless amusement.

As they walked out of the house, they passed Debbie bent over in the herb garden. Her nose was already sunburnt but she didn’t seem to notice, too focused on the dirt and plants in front of her. At the moment she was carefully watering a freshly planted basil plant.

Ian reached out and flicker her shoulder. “Put your hat on, Debs,” he said, gesturing at the floppy sunhat hanging around her neck.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she replied absently. She glanced down at the hat like she’d forgotten it was there, then blinked and looked up at Ian and Mickey as they passed, actually noticing them. “I thought you and Veronica were fixing the fence at the gate this morning,” she told Mickey. “I thought that was on the chore wheel.”

Mickey rolled his eyes in a way that seemed to involve his whole body. “It’s not a chore wheel, it’s a job rotation chart, and yeah, I thought so too. But she decided she’d rather fuck around babysitting all day than fortify our fucking defenses.”

Ian did his best to keep from rolling his eyes at the low-level animosity that always boiled between Veronica and Mickey. Debbie was less successful, making a face that just made Mickey glare.

While Mickey and V had become the unofficial ruling junta of their new farming community in Carbondale, to say it was a fraught leadership arrangement was like saying zombies were mildly discriminatory toward humans. They butted heads more now than they ever had when they were running the neighborhood back in Chicago.

But then, Ian reflected drearily, Lip had been there back then. No one would’ve suspected him of being a necessary cushion at the time, but as Mickey and Veronica continued to keep duking it out for seniority these days, it was obvious he had been. Fiona had tried to step in to fill his space, but she wasn’t a good buffer. She usually ended up taking V’s side.

Thinking of Lip made Ian’s chest clench. The more time passed, the more his absence seemed to grow and sharpen like a physical wound.

“Come on, you can talk with her at lunch,” Ian said, jerking his mind away from Lip. He shoved Mickey forward, who swatted at him.

“Stop herding me,” Mickey said. He followed Ian out to the west field anyway.

As expected, Phil and Lonnie were already there, bending and yanking onions and heads of garlic out of the ground. They worked with steady, methodical precision, like the world’s oldest, most bad-tempered machinery. 

“Nice of you to join us,” Phil said when he caught sight of their approach. He was a tall beanpole of a guy, baldheaded with a ridiculous bushy beard. “Hate to interrupt your busy schedule of sodomy.”

Ian barked out a laugh. Mickey shook his head, annoyed but chagrinned.

“Jesus sees what you’re doing,” Lonnie added primly. His knees creaked as he bent to pull at the stalks of an onion plant. He was stout like a washtub where Phil was lean, and leathery like an old shoe.

Ian couldn’t help but add, “Jesus is kind of a pervert then.”

Phil and Lonnie’s holy-rolling tendencies got under Mickey’s skin like a charm. Phil and Lonnie seemed to appreciate Mickey’s tendency toward shame. They were more distrustful of Ian’s breezy unconcern.

“Mind your business,” Mickey muttered, reaching down for a shovel and a few other tools that were stacked near Phil’s feet.

Ian took the trowel off of Mickey and eyed the end of the row where they’d stopped planting at the day before.

“Blasphemy is no laughing matter, my son,” Lonnie said waspishly, narrowing his eyes blearily in Ian’s direction, but Ian was already walking away. He might feel bad about being rude if he wasn’t half-certain the goofy old homophobes shared a bed themselves in their tiny, secretive room in the back of the farmhouse. 

After a while, in which Ian was reasonably sure Mickey took the time to ask after Lonnie’s arthritic knee and get the old men’s general guidance for the day’s planting like a respectful, doting grandson, Ian heard Mickey finally trot over to join Ian on a far row.

“You’re way too patient with those assholes, man,” Ian said, shaking his head.

Mickey just sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’re not so bad.”

“They’re the worst,” Ian replied, but he didn’t know why he bothered. It was like some small martyred part of Mickey’s brain needed some older male figure to be in constant disapproval of him. For approximately the millionth time, Ian gave silent thanks that Terry was dead in the ground, and let Mickey change the subject, repeating what Lonnie and Phil wanted them to get done in the field that day.

They got started planting the day’s kale and broccoli in neat rows in relative quiet. Ian’s was already sick of leafy greens, but Mickey was in charge of the planting schedule, just like he was in charge of all other farm-related minutiae that Ian couldn’t really bring himself to care about, so he didn’t protest.

As a group, they’d all probably consumed more vegetables in the past few months than they had, cumulatively, in their entire lives back in the city. It was probably why they’d all kept losing weight once they’d arrived on the farm, apocalyptic crisis temporarily averted. Everything they ate, they harvested from the fields or collected from the scant surviving livestock, and while Carl complained about the lack of candy or pop or chips, none of them was in danger of dying of scurvy or untreated cavities.

And after the messy, horrifying ordeal of Veronica’s home birth of the twins, Ian had no interest in venturing into any more homegrown medical treatments, including dentistry.

While Ian didn’t love farming the way Mickey seemed to, like it quieted something deep in his chest, he liked being with Mickey, and he liked the easy repetitiveness of bending and straightening, bending and straightening, over and over together in the late morning sun.

Together they worked steadily across the field, chatting and falling silent in turns. 

“Shouldn’t Iggy be on planting duty today?” Ian asked after an hour or so. He stood to drag the back of his left wrist over his forehead, careful of the edge of the scar of the empty nub that was sometimes tender to touch.

“He’s on lookout duty,” Mickey said automatically, then grumbled more quietly to himself, “Why do I bother making the job rotation if no one fucking reads it?”

Ian tried to hide his smile as he stretched to his tiptoes to make out the far tips of the deer stand they used on the east end of the property, now repurposed as a constant lookout location. It was a habit from the city that Mickey refused to abandon, the need for vigilance of their surroundings. It was something he and Veronica argued about constantly, V calling him paranoid, Mickey calling her lazy, and everyone else rolling their eyes at their bickering.

Regardless, they hadn’t had a visitor to the farm in months, either human or zombie.

It didn’t seem like there were a lot of humans left, for one. A lot of people had died in the initial purge of the virus, or whatever it was (Ian’s money was still on weaponized rabies) and the neighborhood had been the last place Ian had seen more than two dozen people gathered together in one place.

Ian felt a pang, like he always did, hoping Lip wasn’t wandering by himself, that he’d at least managed to find someone else to travel with, to wherever he ended up going.

And anyone the zombies hadn’t infected or torn apart, the ensuing harsh winter had taken care of, if they weren’t holed up in small survivor camps like the farm. It seemed like the cold had taken care of plenty of zombies too, because they had also been conspicuous lately in their absence. The last one had been a single slow-moving, half-frozen stray that had wandered too close to the perimeter of the farm in January. Kev had taken it out with an axe while chopping wood. He barely even paused his work.

But since then, they’d been alone on the farm. Almost eerily alone.

As if on cue, Iggy’s voice rose on a caterwaul, cutting sharply across the quiet, calm field, seeming to ring and echo against the metal of the barn and farmhouse.

“Someone’s coming!” he hollered. “Someone’s fucking coming!”

“Jesus,” Mickey bit out. Ian rolled his eyes in agreement. Iggy may have turned out to have a variety of weird skills, but stealthily manning the lookout was not one of them.

Ian straightened, glancing at Mickey with raised eyebrows, feeling suddenly tense, the ease of the morning evaporating instantly.

They were too far from the house to run back for their usual weapons, but just in case, Ian kept a long-handled hoe in hand, Mickey double-fisting two dull-edged spades, and they hurried to the gate. To his left, Ian saw Veronica and Kev coming from the other side of the property, two automatic rifles each, Carl not far behind with a shotgun nearly half his size in his arms. As per the latest contingency plan, Debbie and Fiona stayed back to watch Liam and the Ball babies.

Phil and Lonnie took much longer to make their way from the field, and probably wouldn’t shuffle their way over before whatever was about to happen was already over anyway.

They all met at gate, standing in an uneven line, peering uneasily down the road. Ian had a desperate, silly thought that it might be Lip, loping up to greet them with a smartass smile on his face. At the very least, he hoped it was just another shaggy, aimless zombie.

What it was, in the end, was a scraggly-looking non-white twenty-something—Ian thought he might be Latino but he couldn’t tell from this far away—with a backpack and a long shiny weapon at his side. The weapon glinted as he approached through the thin trees onto the main entry road onto the property.

“Is that a fucking samurai sword?” Ian muttered in awe. As someone who preferred his tools to be blunt force capable rather than the hassle of reloading a gun, he could appreciate a quality non-projectile weapon.

Mickey did not seem similarly impressed as he shouldered Ian out of the way, automatically putting his body between Ian’s and the gate where the stranger was headed.

“You better stop and put your fucking hands up before we take you out!” Mickey shouted, his voice traveling easily in the dead, tense air. 

The stranger immediately stopped and stuck his hands in the air. 

“Don’t shoot!” he shouted back. His voice was hoarse, plaintive. “I don’t have a gun or anything! I’m just hungry!”

“What do you think?” Veronica asked Mickey quietly.

Personally, Ian thought they should tell the dude to turn the hell back around and leave. The very idea of a stranger made him tense, no matter how tempting the thought of news of the outside world might be. He kept his mouth shut though, as Mickey and Veronica stepped slightly to the side to confer, her gun still trained on the stranger and Mickey glancing in an obsessive triangle from the stranger, to Ian and the others, then back to Veronica again.

As always, their powwow was tense. There was whisper-shouting, elaborate hand gestures and some truly creative name calling (Ian’s favorite this time went to Veronica: “You dirty little paranoid midget.”), but in the end it was mostly Mickey and V being dramatic. Ian could see genuine curiosity warring with their responsibility to protect the farm.

He was so busy eavesdropping on the argument that he didn’t notice Carl had stepped to his side. His little brother elbowed him. “What if he’s seen Lip?” Carl whispered. 

Ian stuck his garden tool under one arm and reached with the freed hand to palm Carl’s head. “If Lip wanted to come back, he would’ve come back, bud,” Ian said quietly. He tried not to think of the millions of dangers that might have waylaid him and scratched comfortingly at Carl’s shaved head.

Ultimately, V and Mickey separated, irritated but in agreement, and Mickey raised his voice to call out to the stranger: “Alright, come on up, but keep it slow, and I want those hands in the air the whole time.”

The stranger followed the order, and soon he was standing in front of them. Up close he looked skinnier and younger. His hair was in fuzzy unkempt braids along his head.

“Can I put my arms down yet?” he asked.

“That’s some brass balls you got on you, to come walking up on us like that!” Kev said jovially. Kev was good at his job, the unofficial Moment Lightener of the group, and the tension eased somewhat. 

The stranger shrugged. “I was hungry, man. It was either that or start eating corn husks.” He turned back, looking between Veronica and Mickey, who stood at a slight remove from the rest of them. “So, the arms? Can they come down yet?”

Veronica looked at Mickey, and Mickey rolled his eyes. He held out his hand to the guy. “Give me that fucking sword first, and whatever other fun, exotic weapons you might have on you.”

The sword was surrendered, along with a brutal-looking bowie knife (“Who did you rob for this shit, man?” Mickey asked in disbelief as he took both weapons away), and the stranger had introduced himself as Jacob.

There was a stand off. They all eyed Jacob, and he eyed them. Mickey cracked first.

“You said you hadn’t eaten?” he asked, voice harsh, but Ian had to fight not to roll his eyes. Mickey was predictable as the tide. “We eat supper early around here.”

“Supper?” Jacob repeated, eyebrow raised.

Kev stepped forward and threw a friendly, restraining arm around Jacob, who stiffened but didn’t fight it. Kev dwarfed him easily. “We ain’t in the city no more, my friend. Might as well learn the country lingo.” He started leading him down the path, and the others fell into step. 

That caught Jacob’s attention. “The city? Which city?”

“Chicago, South Side,” V supplied. “Over near the Yards. We been down here almost a year now.”

“No way, I’m from the Humboldt Park, man!”

He fell into good natured ribbing with Kev while Mickey hung back to confer quietly with Veronica. Iggy walked beside Ian.

“Good thing the fucker’s skinny,” he muttered. “He can pry my share of supper from my cold, dead hands.”

Ian could only nod at that. He didn’t like strangers, but he knew Mickey and V didn’t really have a choice. It was either let him in, try and run him off, or murder the poor asshole in cold blood.

In the kitchen, Fiona had already started stress-cooking, getting supper prepared with quick movements. Debbie was chopping vegetables. Liam was playing with the Ball babies on a blanket on the floor. Both of them whirled around when they walked inside, eyes darting to Jacob immediately. 

“Who’s he?” she asked, using the kitchen knife in her hand to gesture.

“Jacob the dinner guest, apparently,” Veronica said, walking past to scoop both Amy and Gemma up into her arms, Kev letting Jacob roam free so he could slouch to make faces and babble at his daughters. And just like that, Kev and V were lost to the world, absorbed in dousing the babies in attention.

Mickey stepped past them, shaking his head, even as he bent to slap Liam with a high-five when the toddler held up a hand. “We got enough for one more at dinner?” 

Fiona cocked her head, considering. Cooking for eleven people was a constant logistical challenge, and since Fiona had taken up the mantle of Director of Feedery, as she called it, they all deferred to her in the kitchen, suiting her twin natural instincts to caretake and boss people around simultaneously. 

“Um, I guess so,” she said after a moment. “That’s it for the eggs for this week, though.” The trio of scraggly chickens in the hutch were notoriously finicky layers. Phil and Lonnie said it was stress; Ian thought they were just cantankerous like the farmers themselves. 

And if the eggs were the cost, Ian thought they should just kick the interloper back out again. Fiona’s omelets were fucking delicious, and if there was one thing he’d cast off these days it was unnecessary sympathy for strangers and their appetites.

Mickey, on the other hand, had always been chronically weak to the appeal of strays since the first day of the zombies, and the potential of adding to the herd put a glimmer in his eyes. Jacob was staying for supper at least, Ian surmised with a weary sigh. 

As they sat down to eat, Lonnie and Phil finally made their way in from the field, slow to meet the newcomer but always on time for meals, as per usual. 

The old men took one look at their new guest and collectively expelled a huff.

“We running a homeless shelter for urban youths now?” Lonnie asked, eyeing Jacob with distaste.

“Jesus _christ_.” Veronica threw her head back and groaned at the ceiling. “You’re like the heckling old guys from the Muppets, only racist and awful.” 

“Who?” Phil demanded, squinting.

She threw her arms in the air. “You’re just fucking—everybody knows who the Muppets are, _were_ —Never mind! You can sit and be polite, or you can take your dinner back to the living room and eat alone like the miserable old pains in the ass you are.”

“It doesn’t do any good to trust strangers,” Lonnie said stubbornly.

“You trusted us,” Veronica pointed out.

“Yeah, and now look at us, eating nothing but rabbit food,” Lonnie muttered.

“We can redistribute your rabbit food then, if you’d like,” Fiona said, eyes dark.

Lonnie looked mutinous, but took the offered plate of veggie omelet and salad anyway, handed it to Phil, and took his own.

Jacob fell upon his omelet with a fervor bordering on animal. Ian couldn’t tear his eyes away. The guy was worse than Carl. It was grossly fascinating. 

Ever the hostess, Fiona watched Jacob frenzy with a genial smile. “So, you’re from the city too?” she echoed. “That’s crazy! What are the odds, you stumbling onto us down here?” 

Jacob’s lip quirked, like Fiona had told a joke, but when her smile didn’t waver, he cocked his head to the side. “Oh, you’re not—I thought. Well.” He coughed, finally easing up on snarfing down his omelet. “The odds are really good, actually.”

Everyone at the table was just staring at him now. Ian especially felt like he was missing something, studying the way Jacob’s head tilted even farther to the side. 

“Are you serious?” Jacob asked. He looked puzzled. “No one’s in the city anymore, no one human anyway. Everyone fled. There’s nothing but zombies in the city now.”

“What—no more humans?” Veronica repeated.

“Yeah. It was just this big migration. You’re more likely to meet someone from Chicago anyplace but in Chicago, now.” He chuckled to himself. The words had the cadence of a saying, but it was the first time Ian had heard it. 

“You said you been hear a year almost?” he asked. He looked shrewdly curious. Ian liked him less and less.

“We left back in July,” Mickey supplied, despite Ian’s misgivings. “No, I guess it was early August.” He looked to Ian for confirmation, but he could only shrug. His hold on calendar dates was shaky these days, and time passed strangely on a farm.

Jacob pressed, “So you must be pretty isolated out here. You get many visitors?”

Again, Mickey answered, “You’re our first in a while.”

“It must be lonely out here then,” Jacob said meaningfully, and at this point even Kev was watching him sharply, Amy and Gemma balanced on his lap.

Mickey, predictably, snapped at it first. “You can chill out. We don’t generally feed our victims before we sacrifice them to our farm gods." 

Iggy looked up, like he’d just clocked in to the conversation. His plate was already empty, and he looked forlornly at Jacob’s remaining meal. “If you’re going to kill him, I get his food.”

“We’re not killing anyone,” Mickey said loudly over the threat of argument. “Jesus.”

Meanwhile, V and Kev were sharing some kind of silent couple conversation. Ian looked at Mickey, who just as silently glared back saying, _I don’t know either stop looking at me like that, asshole_. Then, Kev turned to Jacob.

“Well, since we’ve got you here though, I was wondering—we know it’s a long shot. But doesn’t hurt to ask, right?” Kev laughed humorlessly, glancing away as his mouth went tight. “We don’t know what happened to her mother.” He nodded at Veronica beside him. “Her name was… _is_ Carol.” Kev rubbed at his nose, glancing away. “And my son. Our son. She was carrying our son. She was pregnant.”

The wording obviously threw Jacob, but then he looked down. “Sorry, man. I don’t—I’ve been traveling solo for a while. I haven’t seen other people in a while, and especially not a pregnant lady. 

Kev nodded. Veronica looked away. The table was silent now.

It was easy to forget sometimes, harder during others, all the people they had lost. Mandy was the constant specter for Ian, and he suspected for Mickey as well, although they never talked about it. But there was also Frank and Monica, selfish assholes but still a part of Ian, still Gallaghers; Sheila and Karen, Mickey’s other brothers and cousins, and worst of all, Kev and Veronica’s son, the little baby who they hadn’t even gotten a chance to meet. Neither of them mentioned it to anyone else, but Ian could see it in the weight of their walk sometimes, Kevin’s usual enormous good humor dulled, Veronica’s snappy resilience strained.

Sometimes the grief felt far away, like it was coming through on a bad reception. Ian almost preferred it. And then sometimes it felt so close it was under his skin, like right now. 

He didn’t realize he’d slumped a little until Mickey reached over and wrapped a careful hand around Ian’s wrist, near the stump.

Jacob looked uneasy, glancing at where Mickey was holding Ian’s wrist. Ian couldn’t tell if it was the wound or the gay affection Jacob was uncomfortable with, but either way it seemed like kind of a waste, being squeamishly homophobic in the end-times. But then, Phil and Lonnie were managing pretty well, why begrudge this newcomer his offensive foibles?

“Well, the guy’s not a newsletter, not a surprise he doesn’t have an update on everyone we want him to,” Kev offered after a brief pause. 

Jacob bit his lip and looked away. “I really am sorry,” he said again, and this time he sounded sincere. He seemed to have lost his appetite. He pushed his plate away, still staring out the window. When he looked back at them, he seemed strangely resolute. Something about it made Ian uncomfortable.

“I’m leaving before dark,” he said. “You all should think about breaking camp, too.”

“Breaking camp?” Mickey said, incredulous. “This isn’t a shanty town, man. We got a pretty sweet setup going here.” 

Jacob rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah, well. It’s not a great idea to stay in any one place too long anymore by yourselves.” It was the kind of sentence that had an obvious ominous undertone, but of what, Ian couldn’t really guess.

Mickey sighed loudly, with attitude. “Dude, you want to tell us something, tell us something. This fucking writing on the wall shit is boring." 

But Jacob only shook his head. “Just saying, man. Just a suggestion. There are some bigger settlements up north. The city may be zombie territory now, but there’s strength in numbers for the rest of us if you can find it.”

It was an odd thing to say, Ian thought, especially since Jacob had said he was more or less a loner himself.

“We’ll take that under advisement,” Veronica said stiffly. Her eyes were still shining as she took Gemma from Kev, cradling the baby under her chin for comfort.

Supper was more or less over by then. Iggy did the dishes, and Fiona and Debbie put the kiddos to bed for a nap. Jacob seemed antsy to get back on the road but Kev convinced him to have a wash with some of the rainwater in back, and then gave him some water for the road. 

They tried to get him to stay the night (well, Kevin tried. Ian was ready for the guy to be gone already, and everybody else just seemed weary of the reminder of all they had lost, especially Veronica.), but Jacob waved it off, saying he was trying to make the border to Missouri before sundown.

“Thank you, though,” he said, a little stilted. “For real. Seriously, I didn’t expect—fuck, I think that’s the first time I’ve had a fresh vegetables in about a year.”

Ian went with Mickey and Veronica to see Jacob off. Fiona following to swap with Iggy for the first half of the nighttime lookout, who was already coming up the path to the gate.

They all intersected at the gate, Iggy giving Jacob a thorough eyeballing. “You sure you don’t want to stick around and eat more of our food?”

Jacob held his hands up. “I’m going, man. Chill.”

“Asshole.” Iggy rolled his eyes, then told Fiona. “It’s all yours up there. I left you the last few rows in the crossword puzzle,” which made her smile.

Mickey gave Jacob his sword, and Jacob stuck his bowie knife in his belt again, smiling quickly. “Take it easy,” he called, walking backwards for a few steps as they all waved. 

“Should we have offered him food to go or anything?” Fiona wondered.

“The sooner he left, the better,” Ian said without thinking, then watched as Iggy, Veronica, Fiona and Mickey looked at him in surprise. 

“What’s your problem?” Iggy asked.

“I don’t have a problem,” Ian said defensively. “It’s just—we’re not really looking for new applicants for the farm, are we?”

“Well, if we were, he seemed nice enough,” Fiona said, shrugging. 

Veronica was less amused. “If I have to listen to one more paranoid white boy,” she muttered to herself, already heading back toward the farmhouse. That seemed to be the cue, as Iggy followed and Fiona veered off in the direction of the deer stand. 

Mickey waited though, eyes on Ian.

“You alright, man?” he asked, taking a step closer, their booted feet scuffing lightly together at the proximity. Ian let himself lean in slightly, their shoulders touching, taking comfort at the contact. He kept his eyes on Jacob's retreating back until he disappeared past a curve in the road. 

He shook himself. “I’m fine, yeah. Let’s go back.” 

But later, in bed, Ian couldn’t lay still. He was tired from working outside all day, but something about Jacob unsettled him. He didn’t like how the guy was all jumpy and eager to leave. He didn’t like how his family and Mickey and everyone else seemed so keen to welcome in a stranger. He’d be happy if they could all move to an island surrounded by hot lava at this point, where they only had to worry about one another. 

“You’re making me seasick over here,” Mickey complained after Ian had flopped to his opposite side for the fourth time.

Ian forced himself to lie still. “Sorry.” He hesitated. “We should’ve made Jacob stay the night. I don’t know if we should’ve let him leave.” 

“What, you wanted to make a citizen’s arrest or something?”

Ian turned over yet again, this time to curl on his side facing Mickey. “I’m serious,” he said quietly, watching as Mickey shifted to face him too. “That guy was weird.”

“Zombies can make people weird,” Mickey allowed, but he frowned. He put his hand on Ian’s shoulder, his expression sober. “Why, what are you thinking? You got a bad feeling or something? Like the dreams you had last summer?” But Ian knew any mention of the strange, hazy, almost prophetic dreams that had driven them back to the neighborhood only to find destruction and abandoned buildings made Mickey apprehensive, and Ian immediately backed down.

“Not really,” he amended. Because he wasn’t feeling anything, not really, or at least, he wasn’t really sure what it was. Maybe he was just being territorial, reacting to a stranger appearing in their space. “I’m just being dumb.” 

“Well, you’re definitely dumb,” Mickey agreed with a grin, laughing when Ian poked him with his toes, “but it’s not like Veronica doesn’t tell me I’m being paranoid nine thousand times a day. It’s not the worst thing, to stay alert.”

It didn’t make it go away, Mickey’s easy acceptance of Ian’s non-specific anxiety at least made Ian settle more into the bed.

“Okay,” he whispered, letting his eyes drift shut. “Good night, nerd." 

He felt Mickey brush a soft kiss to his eyebrow, and even though his skin still felt jittery, he smiled, making himself savor the soft touch. It felt like he was gearing up for something, and like they should be preparing, but he didn’t know what it was.

He fell into a fitful sleep like he was losing some sort of battle. He dreamed of dark, uneven shapes that made his heart pound. He felt like he was awake watching something terrible happening, but he was frozen to the bed with no way to react or warn his family.

So in a way, it was almost a relief when he awoke to chaos. At least it wasn’t a surprise. 

 

***

 

The first thing Mickey noticed when he woke up was that the room was filled with smoke. 

The second thing was that Ian was gasping awake beside him, but by then Mickey was already sitting ramrod straight up in bed, eyes wide, heart hammering in alarm.

Their bedroom was slowly filling with smoke, noted again, dumbly. It was making his eyes and nose burn and he started coughing immediately.

He had a sudden, irrational thought that one of the babies had gotten into the wood-burning stove and caused some kind of fire. He was on his feet before he could wonder how Liam or the Ball babies would have managed to haul wood to the stove and light a match, especially when Fiona was so fanatic about scooping out the ash every night. 

“Mickey,” Ian said, voice harsh. “Mickey, there’s smoke.”

“I know,” Mickey whispered. He wasn’t sure why he was whispering. He pulled at Ian’s arm urgently. “Get up. We have to get out.”

Suddenly, sharply, Mickey heard voices outside the window of their bedroom, congregated in the yard. He didn’t recognize them.

“There’s people outside,” Ian said dully, like he was trying to interpret conflicting pieces of evidence.

Mickey pulled at his arm, hard this time. “Get up, come on,” he urged. 

Ian stumbled to his feet, catching the corner of the bedframe and falling so he had to catch himself on his bad arm. He hissed at the contact with the stump. Normally Mickey would jump in to examine his old wound, but now he just yanked him up.

He opened the door to the kitchen, and for a split second he had to convince himself he wasn’t trapped in the middle of a nightmare. 

The kitchen was half in flames, the stove billowing smoke.

At the other half of the room, by the front door to the yard, between two sets of curtains Debbie had stitched from hand when she’d gone through a crafting phase last fall, were two unfamiliar men holding truly enormous assault rifles.

“They’re awake,” one of the men, a shorter guy with a handkerchief tied around the lower half of his face, told the other. 

“Get back in the room,” the taller man said sharply, gesturing at Mickey and Ian with his gun. Mickey thought it looked like AR-15 but it was hard to tell with the smoke.

“Debbie!” Ian hollered suddenly. “Carl! Get up, there’s a fire, get up!” His voice was rising and he made a break for the wall of flames that separated the kitchen but Mickey grabbed him, yanking him back.

“Get back in your fucking room,” the taller man said again, this time stepping forward, leveling the rifle at Ian’s chest.

“There’s a fire,” Mickey said, somewhat weakly. He lightheaded, the smoke and the shock making him slow. “We can’t back in there with the fire.”

The man with the handkerchief fired his gun suddenly, aiming high up at the ceiling. Ian bellowed out a curse word, Mickey yelling  too. Veronica sometimes took the babies up there at night when they were fussing, and there was no way to know if she was up there now.

Handkerchief man ignored them. “Get back in the fucking room or I’ll fucking end you.” 

Before he could go on, there were shrieks from the back room. Mickey could hear Debbie screaming, the panicked sounds of Carl yelling back at her. 

“Carl!” Ian yelled again. He tried dodging around Mickey, but Mickey caught him at the waist. “Carl, go out the window! Break the window, Carl!”

The fire was growing, and with it, the sound. Mickey had forgotten how goddamn loud house fires were. He tried never to think of the last one, where he’d almost lost Ian. Even now it was taking all he had to keep Ian from jumping through the flames for his siblings.

There was a loud crash. Mickey couldn’t tell if it was Debbie and Carl breaking a window, or some support beam crashing, or the roof caving in. His vision was too blurry to make out much, even his ears starting to clog. The smoke was thick enough that the men by the door were coughing now.

“Ian, we have to go,” he pleaded.

“Get in your room or I'll shoot,” Handkerchief Man repeated, but by now Mickey was over him.

“I guess you’re going to have to fucking shoot me then, dickhead,” he snapped, ready to charge and hope the surprise would catch at least one of the assholes off guard, when they were both distracted by someone behind them.

They parted slightly, and then Mickey saw who had joined them. He could almost feel the rage shoot through his body like lightning.

Behind the two men with the rifles, silhouetted by the moon in the doorway, was Jacob. His machete was out, fire gleaming on the metal. 

“Let them out,” Jacob was saying, the words taking a second to drift over the fire and smoke. “We can deal with them outside.”

Mickey didn’t wait for more. His skin felt like it was crisping and Ian was slumping in his arms. “Come on,” he muttered, dragging Ian through the kitchen.

They stumbled past the men into the relief of the night air, still smoky but clear enough that Mickey could draw in a deep, shaky breath.

Outside, it was difficult to focus on too many details at once. There was too much noise and smoke, and then all the faces faces, unfamiliar faces everywhere.

Mickey wasn’t sure how many people there technically needed to be to constitute a mob, but the word sprang immediately to mind as he looked at the dozen rough-looking strangers spread out on the front lawn, circling the house, heading near the barn. Most of them were even carrying torches, _fuck,_ the flames licking at the pitch-black country night.

He didn’t see anyone from their farm yet, not Ian’s family or the Balls. He definitely didn’t see his brother.

Then there was a familiar profane yell. Mickey whipped his head around and saw Iggy, who was leaping from behind one of the walls of the barn where he usually slept at night to throw himself at one of the guys.

For a brief second in time, Mickey was sure he was about to watch his brother get shot, but he must have startled the other man because he drove the barrel of his rifle into Iggy’s temple instead, sending him thudding to the ground, where he lay still.

Mickey yelled for Iggy but the man with the handkerchief shoved him back, using his own rifle to force Mickey to his knees. Beside him Ian was yelling, his voice so hoarse Mickey couldn’t understand him. There was a note of relief in his voice, though, and when Mickey turned, he saw Carl huddled on the side of the house with Liam and Debbie, two armed men pointing handguns at them. 

There was no immediate sign of Veronica or Kev, or the babies. Fiona wasn’t there either, and Mickey didn’t know what that meant, since she had been on patrol.

Phil and Lonnie were nowhere to be seen.

Past the farmhouse, the attached back building where the old men usually slept was an inferno. The barn was emitting smoke from the roof but looked otherwise intact.

Jacob came to stand in front of Mickey. “I really am sorry,” he said. He did sound regretful, but Mickey reared back and spat at him anyway. 

“We should have just killed you,” Mickey said. His voice sounded torn to shreds, guttural and ugly with fury and smoke. “You piece of _shit_.”

“I know, and I appreciate that,” Jacob said. He scratched the side of his head absently with the handle of his knife. “But there’s not a lot of places like this around here. Like you said, this is a nice setup.”

“And you’re fucking burning it to the ground!” Ian sputtered.

"Not all of it," Jacob said reasonably.

Ian made a move toward his siblings but this time another man, portly and strong-looking, brought the bat in his hand down heavily, connecting with Ian’s back.

Mickey’s voice rose up in a scream, watching Ian collapse. He struggled at the arms keeping him back, trying to get to Ian, trying to make sure he was alive.

“That’s enough,” Jacob shouted, “take it easy.” It sounded like he was reprimanding his own men. “We don’t have to kill anyone yet.”

From the back of the barn there was a loud, shrill commotion. Mickey exhaled sharply in relief, because he recognized that sharply condescending tone.

He turned to see another man in what looked like coveralls corralling Veronica, who was clutching one of the babies to her side. Behind her, Kev was being dragged by another man and what looked like two women, all  their faces covered with clothes and handkerchiefs, heavy weapons raised. Kev's face was bloody and swollen, the other baby clinging to his neck and yowling in distress. V was struggling against the man’s grip, crying and swearing in equal measure.

“You take your _goddamn hands_ off me and my baby or I take your goddamn _head_ off your _neck_ you goddamn motherfucking piece of shit, I swear to fucking _god_ —” Veronica looked up, spying Mickey and the others by the house and cut herself off, swallowing and running toward them.

Mickey saw the man behind Veronica go to raise his rifle before it happened.

“Stop, V, don’t—”

There was a sputter of automatic gunfire, _rat-tat-tat-tat_ , sending up a spray of dirt and rocks in a shower at Veronica’s feet. A howl of despair went up, Mickey thought it could have been him but he wasn’t sure, and in the chaos it was hard to see what had happened. He took the opportunity to yank free of the grip at his arm and fall to Ian’s side, covering him with his body in case there was more gunfire.

When Mickey looked up again, Veronica was on the ground, Kev on top of her, the babies invisible wherever they were being cradled between them. V was writhing to get up, Kev moving gingerly to accommodate her. The babies' screaming grew loud enough to drown out the fire.

“Did you just try and shoot my babies?!” she shrieked, voice wobbly but vibrato intact.

Kev was hushing her, “V, stop, V, just stay down,” he murmured. He sat back but one of the women with a gun behind him kicked out, catching him in the ribs. He groaned and curled forward again.

“Shut the fuck up,” the woman hissed, kicking at Kevin’s neck until he lay prostrate on the dirt.

V began to rise in outrage. “Bitch, I will snap your neck—”

“Enough!” Jacob’ voice rose above the din. “Can we just—all of you together in the middle.” He gestured at his knife. “Now. _Move_.”

There was another loud crash from the farmhouse, loud enough that everyone went silent. Mickey watched the roof cave in silent awe. He was grateful at least that it was empty for now.

“Move it,” Jacob repeated once the din had settled.

Carl and Debbie brought Liam to where Ian lay, Mickey holding his shoulders. Kev limped forward, pulling Veronica with the babies at his back. They settled into a cluster in the center of the armed strangers. Iggy had not stirred from where he had fallen. Mickey gave a single, sober plea to the heavens that Iggy wasn’t dead. 

The back building of the farm chose that moment to begin to crumble, and Mickey said a silent goodbye to Lonnie and Phil. 

“Where’s Fiona?” Ian asked hoarsely.

“Not in the house,” Kev said lowly. He sounded like it hurt to breathe.

“You okay?” Mickey asked. He craned his neck to get a look at Kev, who was pale but shaking his head.

“I’m fine, man,” he insisted. “But Fiona’s on patrol.”

“Don’t worry, she’ll be joining us soon too,” Jacob said, overhearing. 

And sure enough, coming over the field, there was the dim shape of one person leading another at gunpoint. As they got closer, Mickey could see Fiona’s face was streaked with tears, her hands up over her head.

“Okay,” Jacob said. “I know this looks bad. But we can make a deal. You leave, we don’t kill you all dead. You put up a fight, you die.”

“What a deal,” Mickey muttered.

“If you saw what else was on offer, you’d think so. You’re lucky we found you first, not any of the other raid parties. They shoot on sight.”

“What fucking raid parties?” Veronica demanded shakily.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said you should go looking for one of the other settlements. It’s not safe out here for families.”

By now Fiona had joined them. She collapsed to her knees, hugging Liam to her chest as he watched the proceedings wide-eyed, face pale.

Beneath Mickey’s hand, Ian stirred, sitting up. “Go fuck yourselves,” he told Jacob. “This is our farm.”

In one fluid motion, Jacob reached to his side and took a pistol from one of the men who seemed to be following his lead. He flicked the safety off, braced it against the heel of his other hand, aimed, and fired.

At Veronica’s side, Kevin groaned, breath coming out hissed and strangled through his gritted teeth.

Mickey’s ears were ringing. Everyone was screaming. He decided that they were all probably going to die. Carefully, as Veronica and Fiona scrambled behind him to put pressure on the gunshot wound in Kevin’s leg, Mickey pulled Ian up, resting him heavily across his lap.

He had a wild, stubborn thought that if he was going to die, he’d rather it be with the warm, familiar weight of Ian pressed against him than sitting stoically cold and alone. 

Jacob handed the pistol back to the guy at his left. “Okay. So. Five minutes. Get up and off the property in five or I start shooting again.” 

“You motherfucker,” Fiona bit out. 

“Really, I’m doing you a favor,” Jacob insisted. He sounded slightly regretful, but only just. “It’s not safe out here for a nice group of people like you all.”

There was a pause. Mickey raised his head. “You’re really just going to let us walk away?” he asked. There was no way, he knew. There was no way Jacob would let them retreat and regroup to possibly attack later on. 

Jacob met his eye. “Yes,” he said. He was lying. Mickey could see it. He probably just wanted them to move far enough away that they didn’t have to drag their bodies too far to bury off the land.

Dimly, Mickey marveled at the fact that in the end, as they were being ultimately driven out of this paradise they’d found for themselves, it wasn’t even zombies who were doing it. It was fellow fucking humans, of all things.

There wasn’t much choice though, that Mickey could see as well. “Let’s go,” he said gruffly. He got to his feet, pulling Ian up with effort. Ian was swaying, holding Mickey’s shoulder for support. The others got up shakily, Kev limping heavily but with Amy on his hip, held up between Fiona and Veronica, with Liam and Gemma respectively. Carl crossed to where Iggy lay and propped him up. Iggy groaned, eyes fluttering open.

“Thanks, kid,” he slurred, getting to his knees. Debbie joined them, and between the three of them they got Iggy to his feet. 

They all turned to Mickey, who swallowed heavily, feeling strangely disconnected from his body. Then he nodded and turned, the others following as he began to walk across the field.

As soon as their backs turned to Jacob, Mickey knew it was only a matter of moments before the shots started. He grabbed Ian’s wrist where he hung over his shoulder, Ian leaning heavily against him. Mickey wrapped an arm around him, trying to memorize the narrow give of his waist. 

“Hey,” he whispered, not wanting to alarm the others if they hadn’t caught on to their impending execution yet.

“What’s up,” Ian gritted out.

“I, um,” Mickey started, then coughed. Fuck, why was it still so difficult to fucking say, even at a time like this when he might not get another chance? 

Ian huffed out a surprised laugh. “You, um, what?”

“I fucking love you, you dickhead,” Mickey bit out, frustrated with himself.

There was a pause. They were about thirty feet from Jacob and his soldiers now. Ian exhaled slowly, and then leaned over to press a steady kiss to the top of Mickey’s head. “I love you too, you pain in the ass.”

Improbably, it was the idle insult that made Mickey’s eyes burn. He coughed, laughing slightly, the sound of the farmhouse finally falling in on itself sounding like thunder behind him. 

He squared his shoulders. It would probably happen any second now.

A gunshot rang out, and Mickey instinctively dragged Ian down to the dirt, the sounds of the others yelling out in alarm ringing in his ears.

No one cried out in pain though. 

There was more gunfire, but it felt like it was going in the wrong direction, and it sounded wrong. It was slow, methodical, the opposite of automatic fire. 

Finally, Mickey couldn’t help it. He looked over his shoulder, then straightened up to a crouch, stunned.

Jacob and his soldiers were running, panicked, several diving behind the barn, a few hitting the ground. They were shooting back toward the outbuilding behind the remains of the farmhouse, swinging their weapons blindly, like they were trying to fend off an invisible attack. 

Then, looking like the best goddamn thing Mickey had ever seen in his life, Phil stepped out onto the roof the barn, smoke rising up like he was standing on a throne from hell. 

He had what was possibly the longest shotgun in the world raised, the stock resting firmly against his stooped old shoulder. “You all better get,” he called out steadily, his crotchety old voice carrying from the vantage point. “Leave these people alone.”

On the next breath, Lonnie appeared at his side, joining him atop the flaming barn. He had another shotgun, this one sawed off at the barrel. 

“You heard the man,” he yelled, almost casual in his cantankerousness. He shot down at one of the men below him, taking him out easily, his expression remaining grouchy as ever. 

Already, Jacob was regrouping. He was pulling the gun out of the hands of one of the men behind him. Mickey knew Lonnie and Phil were only gifting them with time. There was no way they would be able to take out Jacob’s group.

He thought he saw Phil meet his eye, nodding ever so slightly.

“Run,” Mickey said sharply. “Run, fucking run, now!”

He shot to his feet, yanking Ian beside him. He heard the others rising, everyone’s voices hushed until he couldn’t hear them because he was too busy running with Ian, until Ian caught pace with Mickey’s step and began running on his own. Ian twisted back mid-stride, reaching for Liam, and Fiona passed him into Ian’s arms jerkily, using all her weight to propel Kev forward now.

Following Ian’s lead, Mickey grabbed for the baby in Kev’s arm, cradling Amy close and booking it. It was his instinct to circle back and bring up the rear, herding the group until they were in the relative clear of the forests beyond the property, but with the baby he couldn’t risk it. He had to depend on the noises he heard, the wild peals of screaming and gunfire growing distant behind them as Lonnie and Phil sacrificed themselves to give the rest of them a head start; the pounding feet and gasping breathes as the whole group struggled to leave the unprotected open field and make it to the trees.

They ran farther than they needed to, almost farther than they were able to, but nobody begged to slow down. It wasn’t until Mickey heard splashing and looked down to see they were tromping through soggy, swampy ground and realized they’d gone nearly a mile and were nearly at the edge of the reservoir. No one was following them.

“Hey,” he huffed out. His lungs were burning like they wanted to ignite and explode. “Hey, we can stop.”

Like a marionette chorus, the entire group stuttered to a stop, then collapsed to the ground. Amy was silent now after whuffling fretfully into Mickey’s collar for a while, breathing short, tearful breaths. Mickey pulled her back, eyeing the baby. She stared back at him with big, wet eyes. 

“Sorry about that,” he told her. She exhaled wetly, sucking a knuckle to soothe herself. He turned to Ian. “You okay?” 

Ian was on his back, Liam splayed boneless on his chest. “Today really sucks, man.” 

Quietly, everyone still a little jumpy, they took stock. The little ones were terrified but safe, while Debbie and Carl were sweaty and Iggy looked green from all the running with his head wound but otherwise stable; Fiona and Veronica were sharing grim glances, looking down at Kevin where he leaned against a tree, breathing shallowly.

“I think I’m okay,” he said, breathless. “I think it went straight through.”

Veronica was pale, gripping Kevin’s shoulders tightly. She retched at the sight of the wound, maybe because it was Kev, Mickey wasn't sure, but her voice was cool and RN-methodical as she directed Fiona to examine it.

Mickey hovered over Fiona’s shoulder even as she swatted at him for blocking her light.

The wound was ragged on the outside, but it seemed to cut cleanly through his calf. Ripping at the edge of her shirt at V’s command, Fiona tore off a strip of and bound it tightly around the top of Kevin’s shin above the wound.

“It’s not going to hold it forever, but it should help the bleeding for now. Thank god you had shorts on or else Fiona would have to go digging in there for pieces of jean.” She grimaced, surveying the wound from all angles. “How’s the pain?”

Kevin laughed, then coughed like it hurt. “Oh, can’t complain. How are you?”

V whapped him over the head. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Damn, V,” he complained, pulling back, “shouldn’t you be nurturing me right now?”

She whapped him again, but lighter, just on his shoulder. “There’s no time for sappy love stuff right now.”

Kevin gestured at Mickey with his chin. “Tell that to Romeo over there, confessing his love when we’re all about to die.” 

Carl snickered, and even Fiona cracked a tired smile. Mickey flicked him off. “Go fuck yourself,” he said, without energy. Blindly, Ian reached over to smack at Mickey’s knee, and he smacked him back on reflex.

That set Kev off, and soon they were all huffing hoarse laughs through their sore, smoke-ravaged throats. They quieted in intervals, until all they could hear was the quiet lapping of the reservoir in front of them, and the gentle night sounds of the forest. Thankfully, Mickey heard now sign of any pursuers, armed or otherwise.

Into the sudden silence, Iggy made a deep, distraught sound. “Fucking Lonnie and Phil,” he said mournfully, voice thick. “Those motherfuckers, badass til the end.”

“Hear, hear,” Veronica said softly.

Eyes closed, still lying on his back, Ian asked, “Well, what the fuck do we do now?”

There was a thoughtful pause. Then Mickey shrugged. There didn’t seem to be much choice for them now, even though it hurt to admit the farm that they’d worked so hard to preserve was no longer theirs, and that they were worse off than where they’d started a year ago, staggering down the expressway toward southern Illinois.

“I guess,” he said slowly, reluctantly, “we go looking for one of those settlements Jacob wouldn’t shut the fuck up about.”

Ian hummed softly. Then, thoughtfully, “That asshole.”

“Asshole,” Liam mimicked solemnly.

"Watch it, big guy," Fiona said in warning.

Mickey closed his eyes, leaning back until he hit a rock, trying to get his heart back under control. He tried not to think about Lonnie and Phil going out in a blaze of do-gooder glory, and mostly failed. He tried not think about Mandy at all either, and failed at that too.

Blindly, he reached over until his hand hit Ian’s empty wrist and held on tight to his forearm. Ian didn’t pull away.

 

***

 

Ian decided the only good thing about their unexpected odyssey toward central Illinois (and not south, toward the coast or west to the desert, because Mickey and Veronica were afraid they wouldn’t hit a settlement if they walked in the opposite direction of a city, which Ian felt was shaky logic but he didn’t have any better arguments so he kept his mouth shut), was that it was still springtime.

When they zombies came during that first summer, at the height of the Chicago heat, the very air had felt like it was boiling. That combined with limited electricity and water, panicky people who were all fear-sweating within the same four-block radius and the roving undead festering corpses had led to one of the most foul-smelling summers of Ian’s life.

And he still vividly remembered the summer when he was seven that Frank had stolen all their utility money for two months and all the kids had been pissing and shitting in a bucket in the broiling-hot attic while Fiona struggled for bill money, so. Ian knew from heat and bad smells. 

That was really the only scrap of good luck they’d found, though.

Once they’d reached the reservoir, they’d turned north and started trudging toward Peoria. They all agreed that they’d be better off skipping St. Louis and circling in on Illinois proper; at least that would be more familiar territory. It was a slow, miserable slog.

Kevin was stoically pretending that his leg wasn’t slowing him down and Veronica was stubbornly refusing to acknowledge that he was getting paler and slower by the hour. Instead they clung together, Veronica refusing to let Kev support all his own weight, propping him up like a living crutch, constantly sniping at Mickey to stop and rest (not that Mickey wasn’t keeping his own constant, fretful eye on Kev himself, and not like Ian couldn’t see the stress etching deep lines into Mickey’s forehead; Ian just figured it made Veronica feel slightly in control, bossing Mickey around, so everyone let her have it). 

The babies were fussy and crabby at first, which was grating on everyone’s nerves. But then they grew quiet, lethargic and listless with the strain of travel and their parents’ stress. It was the babies’ quiet that made all the adults tense and nervous, Mickey and Iggy and Ian offering to carry the babies at every turn, switching off so often Fiona joked Amy must be getting seasick. All the nerves just made Carl and Debbie act out and bicker more than ever (“Carl, stop burping!” “You’re not the boss of me, Debbie, _this is still America_.”), which made Liam teary-eyed and miserable watching his siblings fight from Fiona’s arms, his toddler legs not up for the task of endless walking.

Ian’s arm was aching. He couldn’t tell if it meant it was about rain, or if he was just sending all of his worries into his poor, hapless phantom limb. He caught himself rubbing at it more than once, and Mickey started watching him, reaching over to massage the soreness from the torn muscles whenever they sat.

It made Ian feel both like an invalid and impossibly tender, and as a result he just sat stiffly and endured the ministrations.

“Thanks,” he would say tersely at the end each time.

“Shut up,” Mickey would respond with a heavy eye roll in turn.

It was basically a miserable feedback loop with not hope of escape, and by the third day on the road, stumbling through weeds and densely overgrown fields, Ian thought they might have actually stumbled into hell. Fuck the zombies, traveling longways up Illinois with two babies, a toddler, and a Milkovich who wouldn’t stop hogging the goddamn water (spoiler: it wasn’t Mickey) was truly the end of the world.

It all reached a fever pitch when they stumbled upon I-88, the highway stretching endless and grim before them.

“I’m tired,” Carl announced. “I’m fucking done. I can’t walk anymore.”

Ian turned to Carl, frowning. His little brother looked skinnier than ever, his cheekbones sticking out like razors. Since they'd left the farm they’d been surviving on fish and stray ears of corn they could scavenge from the fields, and every time he looked at the little kids, or at Mickey refusing to eat more than a few bites of his dinner before pushing it onto Ian, Ian felt more and more inadequate. 

If Lip was here, he’d know how to find more food for the group. 

But then, now that they’d left the farm, Lip would probably never be able to find them again, if he was still trying to make it back. If he was still alive. 

“Carl,” Ian tried to be patient, “Carl, buddy. We don’t live on this highway. There’s nothing for us here.”

“I don’t give a shit.” Carl crossed his arms, leaning up against the 65-mph speed limit sign, glaring at Ian. “I don’t want to go.”

In a sudden burst, Ian bit out, “You’re being fucking selfish, Carl. Grow up.”

Locked and loaded, Carl shot back, “Don’t tell me what to do! You’re not Fiona!”

For a crazy second, Ian considered throwing his hands up and saying fuck it. Telling Carl, _Good luck! You’re on your own!_ That Ian didn’t want to take care of him anymore, that it was a burden having so many people depending on him at the end like this. 

It felt hot, like rage, but also empty. Like nothingness. He looked at Carl and felt no sympathy, just irritation.

The only thing that kept his mouth shut from saying something awful was the intellectual knowledge that he did love his brother, even when he was being a shithead. It wasn’t coming from his heart, it was just some cold, emotionless recording from his head, reminding the rest of him of how he was supposed to feel, even if it was far away.

It was scary, and it startled Ian. He shut his mouth with a click.

The group settled in for a break, which they were due for anyway while Ian tried to figure out how best to deal with Carl. He wondered when he’d grown so cold. 

Mickey sidled up to him, offering him some water from a plastic container they’d found in a trash pile during the walk. “You okay?” he asked in a low voice.

Ian nodded, looking up at the empty blue sky. He didn’t know how to explain it to Mickey, who out of all of them had shown the deepest, most unending capacity for compassion since the zombies, to Ian’s surprise and slight resentment. He made everyone his business, and never seemed to mind the obligation. Ian didn’t know how he did it.

“I’m okay,” he said finally. Mickey still looked uncertain, so Ian pecked him once, lightly on the lips, and turned away.

When they’d been at the farm, it was easy; it was him and Mickey, and sure his brothers and sisters were there, but they were looking after each other. Iggy was off on his own with Phil and Lonnie, and V and Kev had their little family. Ian had no one to look after but him and the boy he loved.

Things were more complicated, now. More desperate.

After a few minutes, when Fiona had attempted to clean Kevin’s wound again and the group was getting ready to leave, she turned to Carl.

“You.” She pointed a finger at him. He glared at it stubbornly, obviously expecting a rant. Then Fiona sighed, softening. “I’m tired too. I want to sit down and never walk another step. We all are. I wish we could stay here, but we just have to go a little bit longer, okay?”

Carl narrowed his eyes, suspicious. Like he was waiting for the lecture. Fiona just looked tired, however, and cupped his gaunt cheek in her palm. Carl started at the contact but didn’t pull away; rather, he leaned into it, like he was savoring the contact.

“Can you go a little longer, buddy?” Fiona looked like she was pleading with him, but also asking him, _Please. Help me_.

To Ian’s surprise, Carl blinked hard, closing his eyes just as tears gathered at the corners. To Ian, Carl had just looked tired and stubborn. He didn’t know how Fiona had snake-charmed him into acting eleven again, but he watched his brother nod tiredly.

Iggy appeared, throwing a jovial arm around Carl’s shoulders. “Hey big guy,” he said kindly (and who would have thought a year ago that Iggy even had the capacity to be kind), “you want to walk up front with me? You can help me on lookout.”

“Okay,” Carl mumbled, and let himself be led away.

Ian watched him go, brows furrowed. He wasn’t really sure what had just happened.

Soon, the group started walking again. He took up a spot in the middle, trying to get a read on his brain. It felt like a distant numbness was waiting for him, at the outer banks of his thoughts, lapping quietly at the shore, waiting to take him under.

Distracted a she was, he didn’t notice Fiona had fallen into step beside him for a while. Not until she started chattering idly with Liam, who was riding her hip again. His hair was poofy and scraggly on his head, and Fiona kept running her fingers gently through the strands, making Liam make purring noises at the sensation.

After a while, she spoke, quietly, “Try to go easier on Carl.” In her arms, Liam sighed gustily, like he was agreeing. He leaned heavily against Fiona’s chest and Fiona rubbed his back. “He’s just a little kid, Ian.”

Ian had a feeling Fiona had been thinking that about all of the Gallagher kids since she herself was just a little kid. It wasn’t fair to her. It never had been. And yet Ian didn’t know how they would have survived as kids if she hadn’t taken everything all onto herself.

“I know,” Ian said. He didn’t know how to explain that while he knew Carl was little, that he felt young still too, and that there were so many people to care about, all the time, babies and little kids and now Kevin, wounded and plodding along stoically like an old wounded elephant. They were all running around, soft and squishy and totally defenseless, just waiting to get killed or die, and it spawned a simmering irritation in Ian he couldn’t really understand. Like ants under his skin he couldn’t see but he could feel.

With her keen parental senses, Fiona seemed to sense it too. “Are you feeling okay, kiddo?” she asked, each word careful. 

Something about it rubbed Ian the wrong way. “Why are you talking to me like that?”

“I’m not—listen. We were settling into a routine at the farm, but everything’s up in the air now, and it wouldn’t be unusual if you,” she stopped herself, wincing, amended, “not _you_ -you, but like, the _general_ you, felt a little—. Unbalanced, maybe. Off-kilter.”

“Off-kilter? What, like I’m fucking crazy?” His voice was rough. It sounded like how she would talk about Monica. He wasn't fucking _Monica_.

Fiona was shaking her head immediately. “No. Nope. That’s not what I meant. You know that’s not what I meant.” 

“Oh?”

“Just, we’re all hurting right now. Try and keep it together, for the little kids, okay?”

The thing was, Ian knew Fiona was just trying to reach out, to touch him the way she’d touched Carl but adjusted because Ian was older, harder to reach. He could tell in every cautious dip in her voice, and still, it was the same mechanical part of his brain telling him that he loved Fiona, that if he snapped he would feel bad later, that stopped him. 

So instead he relented, just a little, he nodded tightly. “Yeah. I get it.”

For some reason, Fiona looked slightly relieved. “Yeah? Good. Just, we don’t have a lot of resources out here, but just try and remember—it’s all cyclical. You’ll feel better eventually.”

Ian raised one eyebrow, confused and annoyed, like Fiona was making an obscure reference that sounded familiar but he couldn’t place. He was getting a headache. He didn’t know why she didn’t just come out and say whatever it was she was talking about.

He raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”

She nodded intently. Then, like she was worried that she’d overstepped, she made a feigned look of remembrance. “Oh! V. Veronica, I need—sorry, Ian—V!” And with that she turned and hurried back to where V and Kev were limping along at the back of the pack.

Mickey took her place, Amy bouncing lightly in his grip, her little head drooping tiredly onto his collarbone. Mickey was watching Ian, eyes alert.

“What was that about?” He reached over to rub idly at Ian’s empty wrist. “What did she want? You guys looked pretty intense. Is it your wrist? Is it hurting?”

“It’s fine,” Ian insisted, but let Mickey rub at it. The contact made him feel more grounded, less like he was floating slightly above the group with a pinched, prissy expression on his face. He inhaled, making sure to draw the air deep into his lungs. He glanced at Mickey, who was still watching him closely. “I’m fine,” he said again, and this time it felt truer.

Cyclical. He repeated the word in his head. He wasn’t always going to feel this way. Maybe that was what Fiona meant. He didn’t know how she’d been able to see into his head so easily, but maybe it wasn’t the worst advice to keep in mind.

He smiled, and it felt tight on his face, but the longer he held it the more the muscles around his mouth relaxed. He reached for the baby. “Need a break?” He made a goofy face at Amy, and she gave him a token gurgle in response.

“Sure.” Mickey handed her over. It took a moment to balance her with only one hand but then he had her against his chest, and the warm weight felt nice. Grounding. Even better, Mickey brought a hand to rest lightly on the small of his back, and for a moment, Ian felt calm again, not jittery or anxious or cold or distant. Just Ian.

Eventually, an indiscriminate amount of time passed and day transitioned into night. Iggy caught a rabbit, and it was tough to skin using only Mickey’s old pocketknife but they managed, enough that they all ate at least a little for the night.

They took shelter in an old shed at the edge of a cornfield, the field itself now burned to nothing but ashes. Ian wondered when it had happened, in the initial panic or at the hands of roving bands like Jacob and his soldiers.

They hadn’t passed another survivor since they’d left Carbondale, but then they’d only been traveling on an actual roadway for a day.

Ian knew Mickey was antsy at the prospect of bedding down for the night with no real weapons to defend themselves. They’d picked up some sturdy branches and Carl had a heavy, palm-shaped rock he’d found that morning, but even with the cover of the shed it felt like they were just waiting for an attack.

The mosquitoes were relentless, but Iggy fell asleep almost immediately, snoring loudly enough that it nearly drowned out the night insects and acted like a white noise machine, and soon everyone else had dropped off.

Except Ian.

Liam was curled at his hip, and Mickey had thrown and arm and a leg over his body, so he was cocooned in on all sides. He stared up at the shadowy ceiling. His head was racing with stupid, unimportant thoughts, the need to get up and _move_.

“Dude, _sleep_ ,” Mickey mumbled, smacking sleepily at Ian’s chest, making Ian start. He didn’t know anyone else was still awake.

“I am,” Ian insisted.

“Liar.” He snaked an arm up around Ian’s neck, squeezing the nape lightly. “ _Sleep_.” Like he was casting a spell. It made Ian smile.

So he put a hand on Mickey’s thigh where it lay across him, closed his eyes. Tried.

It took hours, and when he finally drifted off his dreams were bright and frightening. He thought he dreamed of Mandy, and of fire. He woke up bleary, the last one out of the shed in the morning, a sense of dread heavy on his shoulders.

That day, Kev grew feverish.

They had barely made it two miles before they needed to stop so Fiona and Veronica could examine his wound and Kev could catch his breath.

“I thought you said it was clean,” Veronica hissed at Fiona, who threw her arm up helplessly.

“I’m not a nurse, V! You told me to look at it, and clean it, and I did that, but who knows, we’ve been walking for days. He’s just weak.” Fiona’s eyes began to well and she rubbed at them irritably. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Mickey told her gruffly.

“He needs antibiotics,” V insisted, hopeless. “He needs clean bandages, and instead we’re stuck in the ass-end of nowhere. Fuck.” She bowed her head, silent. Then slammed a fist hard on the ground, shrieking this time, “ _Fuck_!”

This startled the babies, and Gemma started crying softly. Looking despairingly down at Kev, Veronica brought the baby to her breast to feed, eyes never leaving his face.

Mickey was watching it all, chewing his lip nearly ragged. Ian couldn’t stand it, the guilt on his face.

Ian tugged on his shirt until Mickey sighed impatiently, turning to him. “It’s not your fault either.” When Mickey rolled his eyes, Ian tugged again, sharply, holding him still. “I’m serious. It’s not your fault.”

Mickey nodded, distracted. Disbelieving. Ian didn’t try to argue, settling to stepping close so his hip was propped tight to Mickey’s, holding him steady.

On the edge of the group, Iggy spoke up, sounding bleak but determined. “He can’t walk like that.”

“He’s _fine_ ,” V insisted fiercely. “We’ll just rest here a minute, and then we’ll get going, and he’ll be _fine_.”

“He’s not fine,” Iggy insisted. “If we keep pushing him, he’ll just get worse. This isn’t good for the babies either. We’re just running ourselves into the ground.”

“Well what do you fucking recommend, genius?” Mickey burst out, testy.

Iggy shrugged one shoulder. “Someone needs to go ahead and look for help while the others wait here.”

It wasn’t a bad plan, Ian thought. He knew Mickey would immediately resist any attempts to separate the herd, though, and rolled his eyes in preparation.

“He’s right,” Veronica said. She sounded hoarse. “We can’t keep going like this. We’re losing hours of daylight just to rest all the time.”

“But if we split up, then we’re vulnerable.” Mickey sounded panicked at the very idea. Ever the sheepdog.

V groaned, annoyed. “We’re already vulnerable.”

They argued for a while longer, Ian and the others letting them tire themselves out while they rested in the shade. Finally, Mickey threw his hands up.

“Fine! I’ll go. I’ll go ahead and see if I can’t find a settlement outside of Peoria.”

It was hard to believe they’d traveled so far already, but then, they’d been marching for over a week. Time moved weird. It felt like years since the farm, since Lonnie and Phil, at least to Ian. He wondered if the others felt disconnected, or if it was just him.

“You’re not going alone,” Iggy declared with an eye roll.

“Fuck you I’m not. I’m the fastest, and the rest of you need to stay with Kev and the kids to keep them safe.”

“Who’s gonna keep you safe though, Mick?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

At that, Ian rose to his feet. “He’s not going alone.” Before Mickey could argue, “I’m going with him. We’ll go ahead, and if we don’t see anything or anyone else in a day, we’ll head back.”

“You’re not coming,” Mickey hissed. He eyed Ian’s empty wrist. “You can’t come.”

Ian’s headache was back. He threw his head back, glaring at the sun. “For the love of fucking god.” He strode out onto the road, not looking behind him to see if Mickey was following. “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. We’re going ahead together, even if you think I’m just some stupid fucking invalid—” Behind him, Mickey made protesting noises, but Ian barreled on, “and if you don’t like it you can suck my dick.”

He thought he heard Veronica snort at that but he was already back on the road, marching and letting his anger propel him forward. 

He heard shuffling, then feet thudding on the asphalt behind him. Finally, Mickey caught up to him.

“God, so dramatic,” Mickey mumbled. He knocked into Ian’s shoulder, the motion half-apologetic.

Ian was still angry. He also felt hurt, that Mickey saw him that way. “You have to stop treating me like I’m broken.”

“You’re not broken,” Mickey said automatically.

In the next instinct, he grabbed Ian’s elbow and steered him around a burnt-out car in the middle of the road. Ian yanked his arm away.

“ _I know_ I’m not,” Ian hissed. “You need to figure it out.” He purposefully lengthened his stride, grimly satisfied when Mickey had to jog lightly to keep up.

They hurried along in tense silence. The sun was just starting to warm everything up, and Ian was sweating already. At least it felt good to be moving quickly again, not slowed down by nine other people for once.

Mickey seemed to be grinding his teeth. Like he was working up to something. Ian waited him out, focusing on covering ground quickly. A I-DOT sign said Peoria was fifteen miles away. He wasn’t sure how close they’d need to get before they would see whatever settlement Jacob had insisted there were outside the cities now. Best to be alert. He had a tire iron that he’d liberated from an abandoned car the day before, but he wished he had a knife or a gun.

Eventually, the pressure was too much for Mickey. “It’s not that I think you’re broken. It’s just—it’s my fault.”

“I got bit by a zombie."

“I know—”

“Are you a zombie?”

“No, but—”

“Then how in the fuck is it your fault?” Ian demanded, exasperated.

“I was the reason we were late getting back to the neighborhood.” Mickey’s voice was low, controlled. Like he was doing his best not to fall apart. “If you hadn’t stayed with me up on the North Shore, if I wasn’t fucked in the head after—after, with what happened with Mandy—” He swallowed thickly. “Then we would have gone back with Lip. We wouldn’t have been caught alone and had to run. We wouldn’t have been in that house. You wouldn’t have been surprised.”

That made Ian wheel to a stop, so suddenly Mickey bumped into him, stumbling. Ian didn’t care. He grabbed a hold of Mickey’s shoulder, tight. Holding on so it must have hurt. He glared into Mickey’s eyes.

“Are you fucking stupid or something?” He shoved at Mickey’s chest then grabbed his shirt, reeling him back in. Mickey let him, mouth hanging open a little.

Ian shook him a little, as best he could with the thin T-shirt in his grasp. “You think you’re god? You think every decision comes back to you?” He thought of how Mickey’s insistence that he go up ahead alone. His secret nighttime patrols. “How can you think that you’re responsible for everything, and like your life doesn’t matter, all at the same time? How does that _work_?”

God, Ian wanted to shove him to the ground. He wanted to bite his mouth until he whimpered. The boy in front of him drove him fucking insane.

“I’m just saying,” Mickey started, miserably.

“Shut up,” Ian bit out. He gave into his impulse and kissed him hard. Their teeth collided until Ian tilted his head, catching Mickey at the right angle. He towered over him, crowding Mickey until his back arched and Mickey was tipped slightly backward like a dame in an old black-and-white movie.

Ian let himself get lost in it, pushing his frustration into the kiss, hand roving hungrily over Mickey’s body while his other arm wrapped around his waist so he wouldn’t fall.

He released him just as suddenly, pulling back, drinking in Mickey’s dilated eyes, his red and panting mouth. Mickey darted in, tried to steal another kiss but Ian ducked his head.

“You’re not King of the Apocalypse, Mickey,” Ian breathed. “You’re just some guy. You’re my guy.”

Mickey smiled weakly. “Doofus.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Ian brought their foreheads together, closing his eyes. He just wanted to keep this one person safe and good, just this _one_ _person_. Was that too much? He closed his eyes. “No one expects you to sacrifice yourself for whatever you think you did.” He paused. “Mandy wouldn’t want you to.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey muttered reflexively, without heat. He didn’t pull away though. He leaned into the contact, letting Ian hold him up.

The moment was shattered when a gunshot rang out in the otherwise pristine early afternoon quiet of the highway.

Both Ian and Mickey jumped apart, swearing, spinning around wildly for cover but finding none. The closest was an overturned sixteen-wheeler but it was in a ditch twenty feet up and they were stranded in the wide-open highway.

Another shot fired off, this time thudding heavily into the asphalt directly in front of their feet. It was a good shot, clean.

“Get your arms up,” Mickey hissed, throwing his own into the air.

Ian didn’t know if it was a good idea to advertise that they were unarmed, but when a third shot was fired, this time clipping the ground behind them, caging them in, he didn’t see what choice they had.

“We’re looking for a settlement!” Mickey called out, voice desperate, twisting to try and find the owner of the gun. “We left our group behind, we have wounded.”

“Zombie wounded?” a voice shouted back, suspicious. It was hard to tell where it was coming from. Ian thought off to the left, but he wasn’t sure.

“No, gunshot. Raid party. We were down in Carbondale but a group of assholes drove us out.”

“You were by yourself?” the voice scoffed. “Only a matter of time, then.”

“Yeah, fuck you very much for the insight.”

Ian heard the clear, unmistakable sound of a magazine being reloaded, empty cartridges dropped onto the ground, echoing in the open-flat fields around them, deliberate.

“I don’t think we want that kind of attitude in our settlement.” There was the ominous snap of a shotgun being cocked.

Settlement. Did that mean they were nearby? Was the voice bluffing, or had they really found a little pocket civilization?

Mickey was snapping back before Ian could catch him, desperation making his voice crack. “The fuck you think you are, we have skills, we got valuable skills we could offer—”

Ian hated to hear him beg. He bit out, loudly, “Mickey, just don’t.”

“Ian, we have to try!” Mickey retorted.

At whatever distance the first voice had spoken, another rose up.

“Ian?” This second voice wasn’t immediately recognizable, not with the way sound echoed in the fields. Ian squinted. “Holy shit, _Ian_!”

In shock, Ian let his arms flop down.

“No way,” Mickey muttered. “No fucking way.”

About thirty or forty feet back from the road, off to the right in a stand of trees Ian hadn’t paid much attention to, there was the sound of movement. Ian and Mickey watched as three people, two teenaged boys and a girl, climbed down from their perch. Bringing up the rear, a shorter, leaner boy jumped down.

His hair was longer, unruly. He had the same cocky, arrogant walk. As the group came closer, the younger boys and the girl all armed and aiming shotguns at Mickey and Ian, Ian drew in a sharp breath.

“Ian?” this new boy barked out on a laugh. “Is that fucking Mickey with you?” He was looking in their direction but slightly to the left, like he couldn’t quite focus on their exact position. He had a hand pressed to the shoulder of the girl in front of him, following her lead as they approached. They stopped at the edge of the road.

“Ian?” the boy asked again, less certain. Hopeful, though. Painfully hopeful.

“Yeah, it’s us,” Ian said breathlessly.

“Ian!” Lip threw himself past the girl, who tried to catch him, but he was too fast. He loped forward, stumbling like he couldn’t see the ground, but he found Ian just find. He tipped forward, yanking Ian to him, and Ian caught him on reflex, and then they were hugging, so tight it felt like his lungs were compressing.

He was having trouble getting air into his lungs. 

Because he was holding his brother. It was Lip.

  

***

 

The skin around Lip’s eyes was red and scarred, making his eyelids droop permanently low. The eyes themselves were unnaturally pale, and Mickey couldn’t tell if he could see from them at all. 

Lip was smiling though, chattering nonstop as he held on to Ian’s arm, gesturing expansively with his free hand, laughing at his own jokes, touching Ian’s elbow and shoulder like he couldn’t believe he was real.

Mickey couldn’t stop staring at him, even though it felt rude. Beside him, the girl with gun was glaring, so maybe it was rude. He couldn’t only pull his eyes away for a second or two.

He and Ian were being led past the stand of trees where they’d been almost ambushed; down through a gully he was sure he hadn’t seen from the road. He tried to keep track of the route but it was difficult when all he could do was watch Lip, who was babbling at Ian, who was watching his brother with open-mouthed shock.

Soon they reached another stand of trees, this one thicker and broader, mostly evergreens and tall oaks. Like a Christmas tree farm that had gone wild.

Inside the trees was a vast sea of tents, ringed on the outside by chicken wire.

They stopped at a corner gate where a few guards stood in similar makeshift camouflage, faded brown pants, dark green shirts in varying shades.

“Gallagher found his brother,” the girl in their party said, not sounding happy about it.

“There’s more of them?” the guard asked, opening the gate to let them through. He didn't sound joking, the way someone in the old neighborhood might with the same question. Instead, there was an odd note of awe.

“There’s plenty of us!” Lip piped up. But then he turned to Ian. “Fiona? Where are the others? Are they okay?”

It was the first time he’d stopped talking long enough for Ian to respond, Mickey noted.

“We had to leave them,” Ian explained. He still sounded dazed. “There was a fire, we had to leave the farm, but Kev was hurt. He got—well, he got shot. There were some assholes who wanted our property—”

“Wait, Kev? Kevin was shot?”

“Yeah, and we’ve been walking for days but he’s getting weaker, and Veronica is scared. The babies aren’t doing too well either.”

“Amy and Gemma,” Lip murmured, reverent. He smiled to himself like he was remembering characters from a book he’d read as a kid.

Ian frowned. “Uh, yeah. So Fiona and Iggy stayed back with everyone so me and Mickey could go ahead. For help.”

Lip nodded at that, almost absently. He seemed off, in a way Mickey couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“Man, it’s good to see you,” Lip remarked casually. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you guys again.” He snorted to himself, gesturing at his damaged eyes. “Well, in a manner of speaking.”

It was the first time he’d referenced his lack of sight. The longer Mickey watched him, the clearer it was that he was mostly blind.

Ian looked suddenly angry though, ignoring the question of Lip’s damaged eyes. “Then why the fuck didn’t you come _back_?” he snapped. “You just left, you didn’t even say _goodbye_.” His voice broke, and he fell silent.

It hurt Mickey’s chest to look at him. It made him want to pull him close, bundle him up against everything.

Lip only looked vaguely abashed, waving a hand dismissively. “I knew you and Mickey would take care of everyone.” He rubbed the heel of his hand at his right eye, until the girl behind him smacked his hand away. “Jesus, Amanda.”

“Don’t rub at them,” she told him, stern-faced.

“They’re _my_ _eyes_.”

“But if you get an infection, then it’ll be me looking after you.”

The talk of infection brought Mickey’s mind back to Kevin. “Do you have antibiotics?”

The girl, Amanda, looked at him with narrow eyes. “Some.”

Mickey smiled in relief, looking to Ian, who was also grinning. “Oh man, good. That’s so good.”

“Why is that good for you?” Amanda raised an eyebrow, like she didn’t see the connection.

“Our friend, our friend who was shot, we think there’s something wrong with the wound. It’s infected, we think. We need your help.”

“That sounds like a personal problem,” she said. Another guard came up to collect their guns, nodding deferentially at Lip.

Lip, who was shaking his head at Amanda. “Come on, Amanda. They’re family.” He said it like he was trying to persuade her, but there was a note of steel in his tone. Amanda grimaced, but looked away. Lip grinned and turned to Mickey and Ian.

“Let me show you the camp!”

And they were off, Lip telling them about the adjustments they’d made to the grade of the land so the water from a nearby creek would flow the right way; how many people lived in the tents they passed, eyes lowered respectfully as Lip ambled by in a way Mickey found deeply weird; the steps they’d taken to protect the camp from roving packs of survivors.

He didn’t ask about Fiona or the others since Ian had first confirmed they were alive. Mickey was too stunned to do anything but follow behind as Lip led Ian through the camp, which stretched surprisingly far back, deeper into the woods than he’d expected.

As they went, Lip’s sightless eyes grew brighter and brighter in excitement. “I’m so glad you guys are here now. The things we’re doing here, it’s all so important. Big. I would never have been a part of it if I didn’t leave Carbondale.” He smiled softly. “I knew you would be fine without me.”

“We almost died, Lip,” Ian said through his teeth. “A band of assholes came and tried to shoot us all to death to take the farm. They almost did.”

Lip didn’t seem to hear him. “We’re on to something so big here, Ian. And now you get to be a part of it!”

“Is this some kind of fucking cult?” Mickey asked.

That made Lip laugh for some reason. They’d reached a far corner of the camp now that was mostly free of low-lying tents. People of all ages walked around purposefully with guns. Mickey wondered where they were getting their ammo. They’d been on the end of the rations by the time they’d been forced out of the farm.

Apropos of nothing, Lip turned to his brother. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s...okay, I guess,” Ian assured him hesitantly, patting the end of his stump onto Lip’s hand almost reluctantly where his brother clutched Ian’s elbow.

But Lip was on some kind of mission. “I was so angry at you, Ian. I blamed you for what happened to Mandy." 

Mickey felt himself flinch. The way Lip said her name was quiet, almost worshipful. It was how Mickey thought of her in his head sometimes, and it made him slightly sick to hear the intonation out loud. And Lip didn’t seem at all inclined to include Mickey in his blame, _Mickey_ , who had been the one to pull the trigger, to startle like a fucking deer and _shoot_ her—

Ian tilted his head in confusion. “Lip, what—”

“But I forgive you now!” Lip laughed, bright and jubilant. “None of that matters anymore. We’re on to something big now, and it’ll change everything. It’ll make everything back like it was again.”

By now even Ian had stopped trying to speak and he stood silently beside Mickey, both of them able to do nothing but watch as Lip waxed rhapsodic, like he didn’t even see them anymore. “The zombies are the problem. The zombies are the reason Mandy died, and we’re all in hell. They don’t belong here. The zombies are what we have to take care of.”

Mickey glanced at Ian, then Lip, cautiously. “Well—yeah? Hasn’t that been the point since the beginning?”

Lip laughed again. Mickey wished he would stop. “It’s so much bigger now, though. We have a plan. It’ll take care of everything. And now that you’re here, you can help us. We can kill them all.”

“The zombies?” Mickey felt like he had to check, since he was kind of losing the thread in the face of Lip’s vehement, lifeless eyes.

“Of course! They’re the problem!”

Mickey wanted to say that it wasn’t zombies who had driven them out of Carbondale. In fact, from what he could tell the zombies were content to stay among their own kind, for whatever biological purpose that might serve. He hadn’t seen one in months.

Ian cleared his throat. Decisive. “What happened to your eyes, Lip?”

Lip’s smile widened. Mickey felt the corners of his mouth turn downward involuntarily. Unease was crawling along his skin.

“It’s all part of it,” he said sagely. “And you’re going to help me with it.” But then he shook his head. “But first, let’s get Fiona and the others up here. I’ll have Amanda get a band together. You said they were just south?”

“A few miles, yeah,” Ian confirmed cautiously.

Lip clapped them both on the shoulders. To Mickey’s surprise when he blinked and looked around, they’d reached a long lean-to on stilts. They were standing at the doorway. “While I take care of that, why don’t you both head in, pick a room. You’re my special guests, whatever you want is yours! I’ll have one of the guys bring you lunch and some water.” He gave one last bright smile. “Welcome!” And turned and hurried off back toward the gate, hands held out in front of him to guide the way.

Mickey knew his mouth was hanging open a little. Ian looked just a perplexed.

He cast his eyes around in bewilderment. “Who the hell was that fucking guy?”

Mickey touched his shoulder, needing to reaffirm reality. Make sure they hadn’t fallen through some alternate dimension where Lip lived as a zealot king. “I don’t know. He looked a lot like your asshole of an older brother though, the one with the dumb name.” When Ian didn’t even smile at the joke, Mickey clasped where Ian’s shoulder met his neck. “Hey. He’s fine. He’s alive.”

“He’s blind,” Ian corrected irritably.

Mickey tapped the scar on Ian’s wrist. “He’s not broken, though, right, Davy Jones?”

“Is that a pirate joke?” Ian demanded in mock offense. But he sighed. “Yeah. You’re right. He just seems—weird.”

“As all hell,” Mickey confirmed. “But shit, who knows what he’s been through. We all gotta survive, right? Maybe that’s what it takes in this crazy fucking camp.”

From somewhere off near the gate, Mickey heard the sound of an engine.

“Is that a car?” He didn’t realize how much he’d missed the sound until his throat went dry, almost yearning. “How’d they get a fucking car?”

“I wonder what else they have.”

Mickey bent his head to look into the lean-to. It seemed dark and smoky and something about hiding out in the enclosure made Mickey jumpy, when all he wanted was to stay alert. So rather than enter the lean-to, Mickey and Ian settled on the dirt outside to wait. He held Ian’s wrist, neither speaking. Mickey at least was too overwhelmed by the camp in front of him. Ian seemed troubled, and all Mickey could think to do was tighten his grip on the other boy’s wrist, waiting. 

An hour or so later, there was a commotion from the gate. Mickey could hear the distinct sound of Veronica shrieking at someone.

Mickey and Ian were on their feet immediately, running toward the noise.

“You have to help him!" 

A crowd had gathered, dozens of skinny, dirty camp inhabitants pushing to see what was causing the commotion. Mickey shoved his way through, dragging Ian behind him until they could see Veronica, screaming into Amanda’s face, who remained stern and impassive under the onslaught.

“Lip said you had medicine, you have to help him!”

Amanda shook her head. “The leg’s rotten. I’m not wasting antibiotics on a dead leg.”

Mickey pushed his way to Veronica’s side, and the closer he got he could see Iggy and Fiona crouched beside Kev, who lay unconscious in the dirt. He was pale as a ghost. Behind him, Mickey could see the car he’d heard earlier. It was a lime-green Prius, of all fucking things.

Amanda saw his judgmental gaze. “It was a gift from my parents, okay, people need to stop giving me shit about it.”

Off to the side, Lip had Liam on his hip, smiling at him and kissing his soft hair. Liam was quiet, head bent. Mickey didn’t think he’d ever seen the littlest Gallagher so stiff and wary.

“Lip,” Ian barked. “They have to help him.”

Lip’s head snapped up, like he’d just remembered they were there. “Amanda.”

“The leg’s gone. He’s going to die.”

Veronica made an agonized noise at that, falling to her knees beside Kevin, both babies draped in her arms. “It was fine yesterday—no signs of swelling, his temperature was a little high but no fever, it didn’t smell.”

“It smells now,” Amanda said. And she was right, Mickey realized. There was a thick, unpleasant odor in the air now that they were all crowded together with Kevin’s wound directly beneath their noses. It smelled rotten. 

“So take it off,” Lip suggested. He appeared to purposefully ignore Amanda’s reluctance, which didn’t seem borne of squeamishness so much as impatience with the added workload.

She shook her head but didn’t argue, although she obviously wanted to. As far as Mickey could tell she was Lip’s second-in-command, although she appeared far more practical and worldly than the grandiose, airheaded stranger who stood before them in Lip’s body.

“Lip,” Fiona said weakly, pleading. She was pale, blood from Kevin’s wound on her hands. Beside her, Debbie and Carl had crept closer, watching Lip in confusion.

Lip just shrugged. “It’s his best chance. Look at it, it’s turning green. It’ll go putrid soon enough. We have a clinic in the northwest corner.” He sounded like he was describing just another fun feature of the settlement, not something so horrifying as possible amputation.

Veronica met Mickey’s eyes. There were deep shadows under her eyes. She looked like she was screaming, silently. Mickey wished he knew what to tell her. He wished they could go back to a week ago and shoot Jacob dead at the entry to the farm. He wished he could give Veronica back the normal, simple life she’d yearned for, for her family, for her babies.

He didn’t know what to say, though, so he just looked back at her, his own eyes probably equally bleak. He watched Veronica straighten, coming to some kind of decision. 

“Not until you’ve given him antibiotics,” she said firmly. “If you try to remove his leg before then I’ll fucking tear your narrow ass apart with my teeth, you hear me?”

Amanda rolled her eyes, but at Lip’s shrug, she reluctantly acquiesced. “Fine.”

Veronica handed off the babies to Debbie and Carl, then helped Fiona and Iggy lift Kev, all struggling under the effort of moving his unconscious weight.

“He’ll be fine,” Lip assured the group at large. He hugged a shy Liam one last time, then handed him off to Ian carelessly. He gestured at Mickey, somehow able to locate him despite his lack of sight. “While they take care of that, there’s something I want to show you.”

Abruptly, he started walking away, flanked by two more nameless teenagers in the same makeshift camouflage clothes.

Mickey looked after him, then toward where Fiona and Veronica were yet arguing with Amanda as they carried Kev away.

“Go with them,” Mickey told Ian, who nodded, whole expression tight.

“What about you?”

Mickey gestured at Lip with his chin. “I’ll keep an eye on that fucking weirdo.” He swallowed, peering after Kev. That feeling of dread was only growing, the feeling that Kevin might be on his way out. “Come find me as soon as they’re done.”

He watched Ian lope away, Liam tucked to his side. Everything felt sideways, like the world was tilted and Mickey was sliding wildly off to one side. But he steeled himself, running to follow Lip, who was heading in the opposite direction of where the clinic seemed to be.

He was heading toward a small, neat tent tucked into a sand of bushes. When he opened the door for Mickey to follow him in, Mickey saw Lip had constructed himself some kind of rudimentary lab.

There was a long wooden table, sawed off and smooth, and top were heaps of objects. Batteries, copper wires, plastic drums of liquid chemicals. On the ground Mickey saw bags stacked on top of each other.

In the center of the worktable, a huge plastic box sat, its lid opened on a hinge. Lip waited as Mickey crept closer, examining everything. He peered inside the box, confused at first. It was a jumble of wires, with some kind of kitchen appliance squeezed into the side. Mickey thought maybe it was a pressure cooker. Chunky D-batteries were stacked neatly on the other side. It looked like chaos at first. It took a few moments of silent, thoughtful staring for the picture before him to connect in his brain.

“You made a bomb,” Mickey observed dully.

“Exactly!” Lip sounded delighted that Mickey had caught on so quickly. “And you’re so lucky you came when you did. It’s like fate, almost.”

“Sure.” Keeping a suspicious eye on the weapon, Mickey shrugged. “So what the hell are you going to do with it?”

“We’re going to test it out.”

Mickey looked at Lip’s eyes again, milky-blind, the red irritated skin around the outside. “Have you been testing them before?”

“Not full-scale. Just in the lab. There were some...complications.” He gestured at his eyes again. “Now, we have the chance to go in and take back the city." 

“With one bomb?” 

Lip rested his elbows on the table. “Remember before, when we were researching their behavior? When we saw how easily we could distract them?” 

“But that was a year ago. They were learning even then. They’re not the same now.”

“They don’t have to be. All we have to do is get them close, and then...” He puffed out his cheeks, making a _whoosh_ sound as his hands flew outward, mimicking an explosion. “It’s all chemical.”

“Chemical.” Wait. “Are you fucking—what else is in these?”

“Some phosphorus, some nitrate. Mostly fertilizer. You’d be amazed how many materials were still left at some of the farms. Not everyone set up show and started to farm like you did, they just ran.”

Mickey backed up to the door of the tent. “You’re keeping all this in here, around all these people? What the fuck, Lip?”

Lip rolled his eyes. “It’s all contained. We’ve got it under control.”

“Dude, what the hell is with you?” Mickey ran a hand through his hair, feeling mildly panicked. “Back in the neighborhood, when we were first getting everything together after the zombies, you weren’t trying to start a battle. You were just trying to protect people, like I was. Like we all were. Now you want to, what? Declare war?”

Sharply, the light went out of Lip’s face. His eyes looked cold suddenly. Hard as shale.

“Maybe that’s where we went wrong. Just trying to survive. Maybe we were meant to wipe them out.”

Mickey blinked. Something about the way Lip said ‘meant’ rang oddly in his ears, and he had to jerk his attention back to what Lip was saying now.

“And that’s why I need you to go with me,” Lip insisted. “I need you. You and Iggy, you could make all the difference for us here.”

“Why would I go with you?”

“You could see Mandy’s grave again.”

It was tempting, but Mickey shook his head. “Not good enough.”

“What about protecting Ian, and your brother, and everyone else?” When Mickey didn’t respond, Lip stepped closer. He put a comforting hand out. “Think about it. Why else are the zombies all clustered? They have nothing to eat, no way to survive. There’s no reason for them to be gathering in the cities if they weren’t waiting for something. Some sign.”

“What kind of sign?”

“I’ve been studying them, their patterns. Did you know all the people who turned in the country immediately headed toward other zombies? It was like they knew. Like they sensed each other. Why would they do that, unless they were trying to grow strong?”

Lip may have turned into a wingnut, but he was still Lip, and Mickey was having a hard time not taking him seriously, despite the chemical scars on his face and eerie smile. He was methodical, suspicious, a researcher to his core. Even blind and lit from within with some kind of fundamental righteousness that creeped Mickey out, something in him trusted Lip, or at least his ability to come at a problem and solve it.

“Do you really think they’re waiting for something?”

“Think about it,” Lip urged. “If they decide to move as a herd, come south toward us, they’ll wash over the settlements like waves. Like locusts. They’ll tear us apart.”

It was a terrifying image, pulsating waves of zombies tumbling over each other, propelled forward by the force of their own mass, coming at this small tent settlement outside Peoria, coming toward the babies and Debbie and Carl, coming toward _Ian_.

Still, Mickey resisted. “Why do you need me?”

“We need to strike first. We need people who know the city, and who know weapons. We need people who can protect us, like you and Iggy.” Lip nodded at the teenagers hanging out outside the lab tent. They were armed, but Lip only snorted. “Most of these kids are liberal arts majors from Bradley. They only came to the settlement after Amanda had made it secure. They’re soft. Most of them have never fired those guns before, even though they like carrying them around looking tough.” He smiled at Mickey. “We need someone who’s South Side.”

The air in the lab tent felt thick, choking. “I don’t think I can do that, Lip. It’s too big of a risk.”

Instantly, Lip’s face cleared. A placid smile crept across his face. He nodded. “That makes sense.” Mickey waited for him to push more, and when he didn’t, he began backing up to the entrance so he could escape Lip’s intensity.

“But if you want to start earning your keep here at the settlement...” He drifted off, and like a punk, Mickey stilled, sighing.

“What do you need, Lip?”

“We have a supply run planned for this week. We were thinking about going to the city. Most of the other towns around here are cashed, we were thinking some of the suburbs might still have supplies, dry goods, medicine, things like that.” Mickey thought it sounded unlikely, but he made an agreeing sound anyway. He wasn’t sure how long they’d be staying at the settlement, but with Kev laid up, it would be at least long enough to burn through their share of supplies.

Lip stared calmly past Mickey’s shoulder as he stumbled out of the tent. “The clinic’s on the other side of the camp. Give Kev my best.” He didn’t offer to come with and see Kev for himself, or to talk to his siblings. He seemed content to stay in his lab tent.

Out in the open air, under the shade of the trees, Mickey was glad to put distance between himself and the lab tent, and that godforsaken bomb. And Lip.

He wished fervently for Mandy. She would know how to deal with that nutjob in there. As it was, Mickey felt woozy and unsure.

He needed to find Ian.

 

***

  

The clinic tent smelled disgusting. Ian had only been able to help carry Kev inside before he’d popped back out, gagging.

Now he sat outside with Liam on his lap, Iggy beside him holding Amy, while Debbie made laps with Gemma on her hip, trying to soothe her nervous fussing. Carl was curled on his side, silent. He hadn’t spoken since Amanda’s troop had brought them back to camp.

Inside, Fiona was attempting to comfort Veronica, but it didn’t seem to be doing much good. Veronica was crying steadily.

Ian hadn’t been able to watch, but from the grisly sounds he could hear from outside, it had been a rough procedure. Kev had moaned in horrible pain, there were snips and wet-sounded cuts, Amanda muttering under her breath. Fiona had popped outside to say they’d started him on some drugs and his fever was high but steady, and Amanda had managed to cut away some of the dead tissue.

Despite her false cheer, though, Ian had been able to tell the truth. If Kevin survived, it would be a miracle on par with people rising from the dead. But then, last time that had happened, those people had turned into zombies. Ian closed his eyes, tipping his head against the side of the tent, trying not to think about it.

Amanda came striding out, wiping her hands on a towel.

“If he lasts the night, we’ll know if the drugs worked,” she told them stiffly. “If he dies, we’ll have to burn him so he doesn’t turn.”

“Turn?” Ian shook his head. “But he wasn’t even bitten. We haven’t even seen a zombie in a while. He can’t turn.”

“We don’t know all the ways the virus can spread. How do you think the first people were turned, before there were any zombies to bite? Maybe it’s airborne. Maybe it’s a genetic mutation. There’s no way of knowing.”

“You’re fucking paranoid,” Ian said, head still shaking back and forth, mystified. He realized he must sound like Veronica, and felt sudden sympathy for her, always dealing directly with Mickey and his suspicions about safety. It must get exhausting. At least he did his best to hide it from Ian.

Amanda was giving him an irritated look. “It’s not paranoid if this settlement is still alive. If it’s what keeps us going.”

Ian just glared at her, annoyed. She seemed to resent everything about their presence here. “If you’re so worried we’re all just zombies waiting to happen, why did you even help him then? Why did you even bring us in?”

Amanda pursed her lips. She seemed pretty committed to ignoring him, but then, to Ian’s surprise, she burst out, “You have no idea what your brother has given for this settlement. What he’s done for us.” She waved a hand at the tents before her. “Before him, we were just trying to survive. We had no plan. We had no future, not way to make a different. Now, he _is_ our future.”

“That...sounds kind of crazy,” Ian said, eyeing Amanda the way he’d watch a rabid dog. 

She seemed startled she’d revealed so much as well, and exasperated with herself for doing so. She marched away without a backward glance.

“It’s weird here,” Debbie said morosely.

Wordlessly, Ian nodded. He was distracted, though, as he realized they had a small audience. 

Across the way, peeking around a dark green tent, a pair of small, shrewd eyes was watching them from the shadows under the tent flap. Ian squinted to see, and could just make out a small boy, maybe just over Liam’s age. He was staring at them 

Ian waved. The little boy backed swiftly into the shadows, disappearing from sight. Ian brought his arm back down, frowning. He waited, and the boy reappeared, peeping out from behind the tent again.

He wondered where his parents were, and why he was out all by himself, when everyone else in the camp seemed to be bustling by, busy with a task or responsibility. Nobody spared the little boy a glance as they carried on by.

One of the teenagers who had brought Ian and Mickey in earlier hurried past. Ian flagged him down, whistling like Fiona used to do to call all the kids in for dinner in the summers.

It worked on the teenaged guy too. He spun around. He had short, scruffy black hair and looked instantly irritated. He reminded Ian a little of Mickey.

“Where’s that kid’s parents?” Ian used his wrist to point at the boy.

The guy followed his gesture, to where the boy was still watching Ian steadily.

He was a small kid, short because he was young, but also thin, wiry almost, little muscles on his arms and legs gone ropy with malnutrition and what must be the intense physical activity of caring for himself.

The guy turned back, looking at Ian like he was slow. “He doesn’t have any. He’s just...one of the kids. There are a lot of kids like him around.”

He motioned over his shoulder with one careless jerk of his chin, without really turning to look at the boy.

The boy himself rose up on one foot for a moment, rubbing the top of his raised foot on his shin, scratching an itch. He held the pose for a little bit, like he forgot he was standing one foot like a flamingo.

But he was only three or so. He probably didn’t know what a flamingo was.

“What do you mean?” Ian was struck by a sharp stretch of concern running through him. He hugged Liam in his lap more tightly, making him squirm a little.

The guy shrugged one shoulder as he knelt, inspecting a corner of his worn shoe. The sole was flopping free of the shoe itself.

“You remember how it was.” He set to work manipulating the sole back against the adhesive on the show. “In that first wave. Back when the zombies were just ravenous, it felt like they would eat anything, but even in the beginning it wasn’t really like that, was it. They weren’t totally stupid.”

Ian had a hard time really remembering those first few months. It was a blur of terror and desperation and futilely trying to isolate the neighborhood from the outside. He remembered vaguely how quickly people could die, if the zombies set upon them. He hadn’t paid enough attention to how they were attacking, and then when they did, it was too late.

At Ian’s blank expression, the guy rolled his eyes, adding, “So they would attack adults, but they tended to leave little kids alone. Maybe it just wasn’t worth the hunt? Who knows what goes on in their rotten little brains.”

Iggy made a thoughtful sound. “I kind of remember that, yeah. Zombies are fucking weird.” He chuckled, _oh, zombies_.

“What’s his name?” Ian pressed.

That made the guy pause. He gave Ian a weird look. “Who, the kid? How the fuck would I know? They follow the settlements, no one really keeps track when they show up.” Who looked back at the boy, considering, the kid’s tiny face was almost solemn as he stared back. “He looks kind of Mexican. Maybe Jose? That was a Mexican name, right?”

 _Was_. It was still weird, hearing the past tense. _The world we once knew_ hanging heavy within the tangled meaning of one simple word.

“Who’s taking care of him?”

The guy looked honestly bewildered. “How do you mean? No one’s _taking care_ of him. This isn’t a daycare.”

“But he’s just a little kid.”

“He’s practically feral at this point. He’s taking care of himself.”

Obviously tired of show and tell, the guy he turned away, heading on toward his previous destination without so much as a fuck off.

Ian kept watching the boy though, mesmerized. Maybe it was how he was raised, or the fact that he was holding his little brother at that very moment, but the sight of a defenseless little kid called to him. He was so serious. He was like Liam, but his eyes were wilder. He seemed more dangerous, like he could cause some pain if he needed to.

Ian liked him, he realized. He liked this little boy _immediately_.

He was distracted from the boy, though, when he looked up to see Mickey hurrying through the trees toward them. Relief bloomed cool and welcome in Ian’s chest.

“How’s Kev?” he demanded as soon as he was in range.

Iggy sighed grimly. “Not out of the woods yet.”

“Lip’s weird girlfriend says it all depends on tonight.”

Just then, Fiona came outside again. She had her game face on: big smile, wide eyes. “Hey guys,” she said, crouching rub Carl’s head and smile at Debbie. “I heard there’s a wash tub nearby. Anyone feel like going to get clean?”

Debbie perked up at that. “Really? Do they have soap?”

“Guess we’ll just have to go see, huh?” Fiona pulled Debbie up, hugging her close and taking the baby from her arms. She seemed even more affectionate than usual. The scene inside with Kev must have shaken her up, Ian saw.

Veronica wouldn’t leave Kevin’s side, but the rest of them headed back to the original lean-to Lip had shown to Ian and Mickey, resigned to at least staying the night in the strange doomsday camp they found themselves in. There was a tub of rainwater in the back, with some sand in a bucket for scrubbing, and a tiny sliver of hand soap. Past modesty at this point, they all stripped to their underwear and washed as clean as they could, handing the sliver of soap back and forth carefully in the palm of their hands like they were transporting nitroglycerine. When the adults were done, they took turns cleaning the babies, Liam squirming at the feel of the sand on his skin.

Afterward, Fiona and Iggy wrangled the kids inside, but Mickey seemed reticent to follow. Ian stayed outside with him, watching the busy movements of people hurrying back and forth.

Ian marveled at it, and wondered if the settlement was always like this. Sharply, he thought to himself it almost seemed like they were preparing for something.

He found his mind drifting to the little boy from near the clinic tent. He wondered if he’d wandered back to his family, if he had a family to wander back to. He’d seemed pretty alone, hovering quietly in the shadows and mud behind that tent.

Ian realized he was worried. He startled slightly, surprised at himself. He’d been feeling so frenzied lately, so removed from nearly everyone around him aside from Mickey, that the idea that he was suddenly sympathizing with a stranger was unexpected. But good. It felt good. It felt like something Ian would worry about back before, when he’d wanted nothing more than to be an army hero and save the world.

It was a small victory, but Ian held on to it tightly nonetheless.

“Your brother’s got some stuff going on,” Mickey said quietly.

Turning to him, Ian repeated, “Stuff?”

Mickey moved his hands jerkily, shaping some kind of pattern in the air, like he was trying to depict a high concept that was beyond word. He dropped his hands in defeat. “Yeah, man. Stuff. Weird stuff. Like, stuff in his head.”

Ian didn’t know what to say to that. He’d been feeling like he had some weird stuff going on in his own head lately. It felt unfair to demonize Lip just because had stuff going on.

He glanced away, and a little bit of movement caught his eye. It was the little boy. He must have followed them back to the lean-to.

“What is it?” Mickey asked, and when Ian pointed toward the boy, his eyebrows went high. “Where are his parents?”

“I guess he doesn’t have any.” Ian rubbed at his face, still itchy from the sand and soap that left some residue on his skin. “Apparently a lot of kids are left alone. Did you notice that, that the zombies wouldn’t eat kids?”

Mickey frowned, considering. “I barely remember. It was all such a blur. It didn’t seem like there was anybody they wouldn’t eat, if they had the chance.”

Ian nodded at that, since it was basically what he remembered too. A tired, disinterested part of his brain wondered if maybe they’d never really understood the zombies at all.

But then at the same time, what did it matter. The zombies had won. Maybe understanding their habits and behaviors was a thing of the past.

Someone hurrying by walked close to the boy, and in the flash he was gone, darting around a tent and coming out on the other side, hunkering back down to watch Ian and Mickey.

Mickey whistled, impressed. “Man, he’s fast.” He leaned forward for a better look. “His eyes are kind of like yours, all big and wide. Like a deer.”

“I don’t have eyes like a deer.” Ian nudged Mickey in the side. “Well, he’s fast like you at least.”

“Well, I guess we have to adopt him.” He sounded like he was joking, waiting for Ian to laugh, but Ian was too busy watching the boy worriedly, looking at his thin arms and the scabs on his knee, to notice.

Ian waved at him again. This time, the boy raised a tiny hand, moved it hesitantly, then brought it quickly back to his mouth, sucking on a knuckle.

“It’s not safe for him to be on his own,” Ian said fretfully. Mickey was looking down at him in surprise. Ian rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. “What?”

“Nothing.” Mickey coughed, clearing his throat. He looked away, and when he turned back to Ian he was determined. “So, bring him in to sleep with the other kiddos. It’s not like he won’t have company.”

The little boy watched them both hungrily, focused mostly on Ian, his wide, dark eyes seemed to eat up every detail of Ian’s face and hands and the food and toys he held to tempt the boy closer. Ian was just as mesmerized. He didn’t think he’d ever felt such a strange, sudden connection to a child before outside of his own siblings.

That’s when it started to rain.

“Oh no,” Ian said under his breath. The rain picked up quickly, turning from a drizzle to fat, heavy drops in moments. He let Mickey pull him under the overhang of the tent, watching the little boy rub at his arms as the temperature dropped.

Ian was so focused on the boy that he didn’t notice Mickey was moving until he swore and stomped out into the water.

“Mick,” Ian called out from behind him, distressed.

The boy noticed late too, tearing his eyes from Ian’s to see Mickey. Startled, he began to skitter away.

Mickey paused just in front of the where the boy was hiding by the tent.

The little boy paused in his retreat, looking up at Mickey, mouth fallen open in a tiny O. When Mickey made no move to come closer, the boy waited.

“It’s raining,” he told the kid flatly. The kid’s delicate brow furrowed.

Shit, but the kid was small, Ian thought, watching. Ian was familiar with Mickey’s small hands but he was pretty confident Mickey could circle the breadth of the boy’s shoulders if he cupped them both in his palms.

“It’s raining,” Mickey repeated sourly.

When the boy stayed silent, Ian thought maybe he didn’t know how to speak either. If his family was killed when he was young enough, and no one was there to talk to him, maybe he just fell out of the habit.

Up ahead, Mickey jerked his chin at the sky, where fat drops of rain were pelting down. He looked back at the boy. “It’s _raining_.” He uncrossed his arms, shook water of his forearms. “It’s raining, and it’s cold. Come inside.”

The boy tilted his head like a little animal, peering up at the sky, then at Mickey. He shivered, the motion unconscious, like he was so used to being cold that he didn’t really register it as discomfort, just another natural sensation upon his skin. He was only wearing a tattered pair of shorts and a tank top, Ian saw. He must be chilled already.

Mickey sighed. He looked over his shoulder at Ian, who only shrugged. The rain was coming down harder. They didn’t really have time for this, not with the way the boy was shivering.

“Fuck,” Mickey muttered.

Ian could see how Mickey watched the boy with reluctant respect. The kid was stubborn, and smart, and unwilling to trust, all qualities Mickey personally admired. Ian figured he personally would be able to win the little guy’s heart in a week or two, but Mickey lacked that patience, and in the meantime, the boy was shivering in cold and the tip of his nose and his fingertips were all white, and Ian was losing his mind with worry and nerves, and Mickey appeared to make a split second decision.

“I’m sorry,” he told the boy. “Don’t blame Ian for this.”

Obviously the kid had gotten used to being given his space, and had also sorted Ian and by proxy Mickey into a column in his little brain labeled Not A Threat. His mistake, Ian figured, as Mickey darted forward, faster than even the kid could move, and swooped him up into his arms.

The kid howled like a wild animal. He thrashed, scratching at Mickey’s arms and legs, trying to bite him, and although desperation made him surprisingly strong, he was still practically a toddler, and Mickey was able to pin him relatively easily against his chest, although the kid got his nails into his right forearm, digging in hard and leaving gouges behind.

Turning, Mickey stomped back toward their housing, grumbling as the kid continued to buck. “Stop being so dramatic,” he told him, but the kid ignored him. When he reached Ian, he dropped the boy into Ian’s lap where he crouched. Startled, the boy stilled, staring up at Ian in awe. Ian grimaced at Mickey, who shrugged.

“You were looking all forlorn, and the kid was cold.” He made a face, like, what do you want me to do. “Bring him into Fiona, see if she has any food for the kids. 

The boy seemed most trusting of Ian. He hesitantly leaned his weight against him, always maintaining eye contact. Ian was helpless to do anything but nod.

He stood, heading inside and listening for Fiona’s voice. She was saying something low and soothing to the babies, Gemma it looked like, who was fussy and far from soothed. She looked up, taking in the boy in Ian’s arms.

“Who’s this?” she asked brightly, false cheer still strong.

“Danny,” Ian said impulsively. He looked at the boy, who didn’t seem inclined to object.

“Hi Danny,” Fiona said warmly. Then, to Ian, “Where’d you find him?" 

“He doesn’t have anybody,” he explained, ready to argue that Danny needed their help, even if it felt foreign to him to suggest they go out of their way to help someone outside their own family. 

But Iggy saved him from that. He stood, coming to the boy, Liam on his hip. “Hey, look. Maybe someone can finally keep this guy company for a while.” He tickled Liam lightly on his flat tummy, and he giggled.

Fiona nodded at Ian. “Go get Mickey, we need to figure out what we can eat around here.”

“I’ll be right back,” he told the boy, who was watching him leave with unease. But then Liam reached out and touched his knee, friendly and calm as always, and the boy was distracted long enough for Ian to head out 

Outside the rain had started to let up already, the spring shower there and gone again. He scanned the area outside the lean-to for Mickey, and when he finally spotted him, he was talking to Lip.

Mickey seemed pissed off. Ian walked over quickly, and caught the end of Mickey’s vehement objection.

“You already told him you wouldn’t go with for what?” Ian asked.

Mickey met Lip’s eye like he was telling him to shut up. “For nothing.”

“A supply run,” Lip supplied, oblivious. He smiled wide. Mickey relaxed, like he was relieved, like he’d expected Ian to say something else. Ian narrowed his eyes. Fucker thought he was smooth, but Ian could read him like a book. He was hiding something.

Ian asked Lip, “A supply run? Where to? There’s nothing around here.”

Lip was unconcerned. “The city.”

“The _city_ as in Chicago? The _zombie-stronghold_ of Chicago? _That_ Chicago?”

“Bingo,” Lip said easily.

“You can’t go to Chicago,” Ian insisted, smacking Mickey on the chest. Above them, a feeble crack of thunder punctuated his protest. “That’s suicide. When were you going to tell me?”

“We’re going tomorrow,” Lip said firmly. He met Mickey’s eyes, looking stern. Then he smiled at Ian. “Tell Fiona and the kids I’ll be back with dinner later.” And then he was gone.

“Always with the fucking dramatic exits, I swear to god,” Ian muttered. He turned back to Mickey, who was wiping rain water from his hair. Ian yanked his arm, dragging him deeper into the woods behind the lean-to, far enough away that they couldn’t hear the rest of the camp. Ian poked him in the chest. “So? What the hell was that?”

“Ow.” Mickey rubbed his chest. “It’s nothing. Lip’s just—he’s a little intense, alright, and I might have told him I’d help with the supply run just to get away from him earlier.” Ian was unimpressed, so Mickey rolled his eyes and added, “He might have also been talking about us needing to pull our weight.”

Ian groaned, loudly. He could see it like he’d been there. All it took was one well-aimed poke from Lip at Mickey’s pride, and he could probably get him to dance.

“You don’t have to go. We can hunt our own food.”

Mickey shook his head, leaning back against a tree. He closed his eyes, looking exhausted. “But they gave Kev those meds. We can’t hunt those. We owe them now.”

Ian wanted to argue more, but he could see Mickey’s point. After everything with Jacob, Ian was painfully aware of how brutal other survivors could be. If they wanted to stay in the safety of the settlement, they needed to contribute.

They were stuck.

He threw himself moodily against the tree next to Mickey. “So we lost the farm, we got Phil and Lonnie killed, Kev’s barely hanging in there, Lip’s lost his goddamn mind, you’re thinking about waltzing on up to Chicago to see if the zombies hungry at all, and best of all we’re stuck in fucking Peoria.” Ian threw his hands up. “What else could possibly go wrong. 

Mickey stepped forward, holding Ian’s hand carefully. His voice lowered, sounding almost shy. “At least we’re still alive,” he offered. “At least we’re still together.”

It was so earnest Ian couldn’t make fun of him at first. He looked so serious, like when they’d been walking away from the farm and he’d been so intent on telling Ian how he felt as they waited for Jacob and his band of soldiers to shoot them.

“Swoon,” Ian said, catching up in time to start teasing. He giggled a little, seeing Mickey blush.

“Fuck you.” He hid his face in Ian’s neck though, huffing out against his skin in a way that made Ian shudder a little.

He glanced around, surveying their surroundings. It wasn’t exactly secluded, but if they were quiet, they could stay in the shadows and no one would see them behind the lean-to like this. He was distracted as Mickey reached into his jeans, pulling out a small packet of lube from the pocket. It was one of the supply they’d stolen from the gay club back in Chicago, one of the supply Ian had been _sure_ had run dry.

“You have lube?” Ian hissed in outrage. “We’ve been using that weird oil shit from Debbie for months and all this time you’ve had _lube_?”

“Just one packet!” He ducked as Ian smacked at him. “It was for a special occasion! Hey, stop!”

“Withholder! Dirty, rotten withholder!”

“Does that mean you don’t want to use it?”

Ian snatched it out of his hand, scowling, but crowding him back deeper into the woods, where the afternoon sun barely reached, the trees and moss cool and damp. He sat down on a stump, pulling Mickey down with him so he straddled Ian’s waist.

Cupping Mickey’s head, he caught his mouth in a wet, clinging kiss. “So what makes right now a special occasion?” He kissed him again, tongue sweeping through, chasing the taste of Mickey’s mouth.

Mickey hummed against his lips, pulling away enough to gasp, “Maybe I’m just glad we’re alive. That enough for you?” He looped his arms around Ian’s neck, attacking his mouth, nipping at his lips. He leaned forward, grinding his ass down against Ian’s cock where he was growing hard through his jeans.

It was a fast, almost too fast, and Ian had to throw his head back, catching his breath. “Take your clothes off,” he muttered, urgent. He practically shoved Mickey back to yank off his shirt, then shimmy out of his pants. He watched, laughing as Mickey danced from one foot to the other, shaking off his pants, his T-shirt getting caught around his head. Ian bit back his laugh, helping him untangle himself, then he held him back at arm’s length, despite Mickey’s move to come closer.

“Come on, man, let’s do this,” Mickey whined, but Ian kept him still.

“I just want to look at you for a minute,” he whispered.

Displeased, Mickey tried to cover himself but Ian held him back with one hand, eyes tracing how his pale skin stood out in the darkness. They so rarely got to do this, used to stealing moments late at night or early before chores on the farm. Now, Ian wanted to savor it, memorize the shape of his shoulders and how cock stood all pretty and flushed against his belly.

Mickey couldn’t help but complain. “You’re killing me here.”

Ian relented, yanking him forward so he tumbled in a heap on his lap.

“You’re such a shithead,” Mickey grumbled, draping himself more comfortably in Ian’s lap. He got distracted by Ian’s dick, where it twitched, smearing precome on his fingers as he stared down, mouth open, jerking Ian gently, like he just wanted to watch all night.

Ian couldn’t wait anymore; he reached around, grabbing at Mickey’s ass with his hand, squeezing and bringing him forward on his lap so their heads of their cocks just caught each other, dragging moans out of bother their throats.

“God, your ass,” Ian muttered.

Mickey buried his face in Ian’s throat, already grinding and thrusting forward, impatient. Ian couldn’t blame him. He ran the tip of his finger over Mickey’s dry hole, loving the way Mickey shivered, and then he was scrambling for the lube packet, unable to wait anymore.

He took his time fingering him. Mickey loved having his ass played with, and Ian relished the hot, smooth feel as he pushed a finger tip in, stroking the rim, pressing harder, building a rhythm, following the speed of Mickey’s hips rising and falling in little jerks above him. He felt Mickey whine high in his throat, always so sensitive, licking and biting at Ian’s neck. He used his other wrist to hold Mickey close, keeping pressure at his lower back.

“So good for me.” He pressed kisses to Mickey’s temple, loving the smell of him. “So good, always so good.”

Mickey moaned, pressing back against the pressure. Ian added another finger, stretching him and then searching for his prostate. He loved the gasp Mickey made when he hit it, rubbing firmly, making him twitch and writhe in Ian’s lap. Part of him wanted to make him come like this, just lean back and watch him fall apart from only Ian’s finger in his ass, but Mickey drew back, nipping hard at Ian’s earlobe.

“Just do it,” he hissed, arching his back as Ian twisted his wrist. “I’m ready, just do it, please just do it.”

“Okay, shhh, I will,” Ian promised. He kissed his cheek, then grabbed the base of his cock, stroking roughly a few times so he was hard enough it throbbed.

Mickey planted his feet, rose a little, and let his mouth fall open as Ian guided himself inside.

They moved enough to stare at each other, both flushed, open-mouthed, eyes hazy and overwhelmed. Ian bared his teeth, the heat, the pressure, the feel of Mickey on top of him almost too much. He leaned back, wrapping a hand around Mickey’s cock, squeezing at the head.

“Fuck yourself on me, Mick.” He twisted his wrist, watching Mickey grunt, moving in Ian’s lap. “Do it.”

Mickey always set a punishing pace when he got the chance. He rose up just enough to slam back down, watching Ian pant and sweat, ramming himself down on Ian’s cock as hard as he could, taking it all, driving near-constant moans out of his own mouth. Ian kept up the pressure on Mickey’s cock, going faster as Mickey sped up, until the sounds of skin slapping together and the wet sound of fucking filled the little pocket of the woods, enough that it probably echoed in the camp but Ian didn’t care, he couldn’t.

He watched Mickey come and he felt his throat tighten. As Mickey went mostly limp over him, Ian finished him off, his hand wet with Mickey’s come, working him until he couldn’t take it anymore. With the sound of Mickey’s tired pants in his ear, Ian hunched his hips up, fucking up into Mickey in uneven jerks, chasing him to the finish line until he came with a long, low groan, almost yelping when Mickey squeezed around him, smirking as Ian glared through his orgasm.

Afterward, they were both wobbly. Ian helped Mickey get up.

“Told you it was a special occasion,” Mickey wheezed. Ian reeled him in, kissing him tiredly on the lips.

“Love you,” he muttered.

Mickey chuckled. “Talk about swoon.”

But after that kind of fucking, Ian didn’t have it in him to tease back. “I’m serious. I do.”

They went back to the lean-to, suspiciously sweaty and bright-eyed, but Ian’s siblings mercifully kept quiet. Lip sent food over, but never bothered showing up himself (which Ian, to his quiet guilt, did not mind, since his brother was barely recognizable as himself anymore) and Veronica came from Kev’s bedside. She said his fever was down, and she seemed in good spirits.

Danny, stayed closed to Ian’s side all night. He curled up against Ian’s hip on one of the cots in the lean-to, Mickey passed out across his chest on the other side.

For once, Ian fell easily to sleep. As he drifted off, he thought that all in all, today had ended up better than he expected.

When he woke up, Mickey was gone. As he searched the camp for him, he learned Lip was too. So was the car. They’d gone to Chicago.

 

***

**_  
_**

Mickey had all but decided to blow Lip off that next morning.

After seeing how Ian had focused on the little boy, Danny, he knew he no longer wanted to take the risk. It was odd seeing how fixated Ian had become on someone outside of their own small tribe. It comforted him, in some weird way, knowing that Ian could still connect to other people who weren’t Gallaghers or Balls or Milkoviches.

Sure, they’d only had granola and stale white bread for dinner, and he was pretty confident he hadn’t misheard the implied “please enjoy my largesse” in Lip’s gift (absent himself, of course, not that Mickey minded), and with Danny there were even more of them to worry about now, more of them to take on as Mickey’s responsibility. 

But after having sex the night before, the intense, inescapable closeness of being with Ian, staring down at him, holding him close enough that he could feel him panting against his skin, Mickey knew he needed to stay close and help preserve Ian's newfound contentment, rather than run off with Lip on a dangerous supply run, no matter how much they needed it.

Ian had been so different the past week, almost cold, definitely removed, and now that he’d seemed to thaw, Mickey didn’t want to miss any of it. He would just refuse Lip’s request. Lip wasn’t in charge of Mickey. He could do what he wanted.

He untangled himself from Ian, peering down at the picture he made, sprawled dead-asleep on the cot with Danny tangled on one side, then went outside to take a piss. He found a tree, undid his pants, and then— 

“You really think you can keep them all safe if you can’t provide for them?”

Mickey jerked, arms flying everywhere. He spun around, and there was fucking Lip, leaning against the lean-to wall, just waiting for him, apparently.

“How do you fucking do that if you can’t see?” Mickey jeered, annoyed. He turned away, finished up, then zipped up his pants.

“I need your help,” Lip said lowly. Pleading. “I need someone to drive on the supply run. Amanda says it’s too dangerous to go to the city.”

Mickey tried to step around him to head back to the lean-to. It was still early enough in the camp that most people were asleep, the tents quiet. If he went back in now, maybe he could sleep for another hour or two, knowing any immediate danger temporarily at bay.

“Maybe you should listen to her.”

“She’s too scared to try, but we’re running low. People are going to start to starve soon. She always sends supply parties to the same spots and they’re almost empty. I didn’t want to tell you before but...it’s pretty dire. No one knows how bad it’s gotten." 

Studying Lip, Mickey tried to figure out if he could believe him. Lip was so off-kilter it was like talking to a frenetic stranger. He had the feeling that if Lip was playing him, it would tough to tell.

Lip rubbed at the scars on his eyes. They looked especially red today. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I’m just telling you how things are.”

Mickey knew how fast supplies could run low, if there was no place to replenish them. He missed the farm keenly. He wondered why no one in this settlement had tried planting, or if they had, if it had just failed. Scavenging for food was no plan.

“If I do this, then we’re talking about harvesting with Amanda tomorrow,” Mickey said slowly

Lip was nodding immediately. “Absolutely.”

Mickey’s head was already spinning, making plans, thinking about schedules.

“This is the one and only time we go to the city. We see what we can find, we don’t spend more than an hour, and then we head home. We got gas?”

And just like that, Mickey guessed he had made up his mind, for better or worse.

Leaving a sleeping Ian was still a physical struggle. Mickey spent a long moment at the entrance of the lean-to, peering in at Ian’s cot.

He should go in, wake Ian up and tell him where he was going.

His feet didn’t move. He thought of his outrage earlier, and how vehemently he’d argue against it now. Ian didn’t understand what it was like to be in charge of everyone’s welfare, Mickey told himself, and it wasn’t like Mickey resented it. This was just part of taking care of the group, making the tough decisions, going to do dangerous jobs and making sure no one knew to worry about him until he was already back, safe and sound, and it was too late. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, all of that.

It was just a supply run. It was the best hope their group had for staying in the settlement, if Mickey helped Lip bring back enough food to support them all for at least a while, and helped with planting after that. They would be back in a few hours. No big deal.

It was fine.

Decided, Mickey forced himself to walk outside without looking back.

Outside the tent, Danny was sitting quietly. Mickey didn’t know when he’d managed to escape outside to the freedom of the open camp. Mickey didn’t know when he slept, or if he did. He was a strange little kid.

He stared up at Mickey, wide-eyed.

Mickey crouched down. “Go back in with Ian,” he said, pointing into the lean-to. He expected no more than further quiet staring, but to Mickey’s surprise, after one longer look, Danny got up and returned to the tent, ducking under the flap and returning inside. Mickey felt a little twinge of longing, watching him go. Wishing he could follow him in and curl up with both him and Ian.

Lip was waiting for him by the gate. He tossed Mickey the car keys, and handed over two AK-47s by the nylon straps.

“Let’s hit the road,” Lip said, and Mickey watched as he felt his way around the car to the passenger seat. Shaking his head, Mickey followed him, wincing at the noise as he started the car.

Soon, they were on the highway.

It was weird being in a car again, _driving_ a car again. It was even weirder being in a Prius.

Lip talked for most of the way about the settlement, improvements they were going to make to the tents, a rudimentary electricity grid Lip was close to perfecting. He sounded like he was talking off a list, trying to give Mickey some kind of crash-course to running the Peoria settlement. Fuck if Mickey knew why. 

Lip quieted down when they passed the sign for DeKalb. They were close.

It was Mickey’s instinct to stop outside downtown, picking through the stores and homes in the suburbs. That plan was stymied by the exit ramps, however.

The expressway to downtown was crowded with broken-down vehicles and piles of trash, enough that Mickey had to slow down to inch around obstructions. But at least there was room to inch around. Most of the exit ramps were piled full, or the cement was cracked from the winter without any highway maintenance crews to perform upkeep. It felt like they were on a conveyor belt, pushing them closer and closer to the city.

“Do you even remember where Mandy is buried?” Mickey asked quietly. They were crossing the city limits. He had the distinct impression that somehow, in a way that wasn’t clear now but would reveal itself shortly, he’d been had.

Lip looked out his window, the movement obviously reflexive since he couldn’t see anything. He traced a finger around the window. “Not really."

He didn’t offer any explanations on why he’d offered that up as an inducement in the first place, either. It didn't matter now anyway, they were almost downtown.

They fell silent. 

They passed under the old post office, the tunnel rising heavy and hulking above them. Obstructions in the road were fewer here. Mickey wondered if it was because of how many people managed to flee right before it got bad, only to get stranded just outside with traffic, to the zombies’ delight, he supposed. 

The city was silent as a tomb. Mickey supposed it was a tomb, technically.

They crawled slowly down side streets, eyes open for grocery and drug stores. Vines and plants were already growing through the cracks in the sidewalk, up the sides of buildings, curling around the train tracks where they rose above street level.

Even from the car, most of the stores looked empty. Their windows were broken out. Some of the pipes had obviously flooded, creating ponds that flowed out into the street.

Mickey swallowed, unease burrowing deep into his bones. “I don’t think there’s anything left in the whole city.” Lip didn’t answer

As they drove, they didn’t see a single zombie. The streets didn’t feel empty, though. Just watchful.

“Where are they?” Mickey asked. He remembered tramping through the city before, him and Ian and Iggy and Lip, and feeling like they were being watched. It had seemed like the zombies grouped together, for strength or safety for ease of the hunt, whatever it was. Now, it seemed like they had just gotten better at it. Leveled up to expert.

“They’re probably underground. Maybe they rest during the day, hunt at night,” Lip suggested. He didn’t sound concerned.

“I thought you said you researched them. Studied their habits or whatever.”

Lip nodded absently. “As much as we could from out in the country. Turn here,” he said suddenly.

Cautiously, Mickey followed his lead. He pulled onto a side street, then had to put on the break. A huge truck was blocking their way.

“There should be a Target around here. Hold on, let me check.” Lip hopped out of the car, went around to the trunk to pull out a weapon. Mickey watched him worriedly in the rearview, then strained in his seat, trying to see around the truck chewing on his lip.

It took him longer than it should to realize Lip couldn’t see anything. Mickey just forgotten, assumed he’d been dealing with the Lip from before, not the weird blind one, and by the time he had the car in park and was hopping out after him, Lip was all the way out of the side street, standing in the middle of the intersection for some reason. He had a compact plastic storage bin cradled in his arms. He must have stored it in the Prius’ trunk, and Mickey hadn’t looked back there so he hadn’t noticed.

“Lip!” Mickey called out, trying to keep his voice low. “Lip, get back in the car.”

As he hurried over, he saw Lip pull something out of the tub, a long, narrow tube. He held it up close to his eyes like he was trying to examine it, but when Mickey got too close, Lip pulled back, holding his gun up. 

“Stay away from me,” he said sharply. 

With a flick of Lip's wrist, as Mickey watched in panic, the tube, a flare he could see now, ignited. The fuse crackled, sending bright orange sparks into the sky. 

“What is the _fuck_ , Lip?” Mickey’s own gun hung loosely around his neck but he barely even though about, too focused on Lip’s gun pointed at his face, at the flare in his hand, and whatever the hell was in that tub.

Then, up ahead, there was a shuffling noise. Mickey spun around, heart pounding hard, peering up the street.

He hadn’t seen a group of zombies together in almost a year. Seeing them again, even from a few blocks away, was jarring. They crept closer, heads tilting in that unnerving way they had.

“Hey, guys,” Lip shouted, jovial.

“ _Lip_.”

“Come on over here.”

There were about forty zombies, all different sizes and ages, all mostly naked except for rotting scraps of clothing. Mickey figured that after winter a lot of them had died just like the humans had, but the ones that were left were lean, strong.

He could smell them even three blocks away, the rotting flesh pungent in the mild spring air, carrying easily. It made him gag in his throat.

Lip gestured with the flare.

“Lip, stop it.” Mickey stepped back, holding his gun up. If he tried to tackle Lip he might accidentally get shot, but if he stared here, watching whatever the fuck this was unfold, he’d be zombie food. No question.

He thought of Ian, possibly still sleeping soundly, completely unaware Mickey was about to face down a pack of zombies because his unhinged goddamn brother had some sort of death wish.

For their part, the zombies looked suspicious. They were still a fair distance away, moving slowly, but Mickey could tell from the way they hesitated, waiting on the curb, heads tilting back and forth lock birds, broadcasted heavy, heavy distrust.

“Come on,” Lip called out, coaxing. He waved the flare higher.

The zombies looked past Lip, focusing on Mickey as one. They seemed to be asking Mickey what the fuck was wrong with this guy. He almost had the urge to shrug in response, before he remembered he would be trying to communicate that with _fucking zombies_.

“Lip, get back in the car.”

“I’m sorry to bring you into this,” Lip said, sounding reasonably apologetic but not sparing Mickey a glance. He bent to dig into the plastic bin at his feet. “I just needed a ride.”

Of course, Mickey finally recognized the bin. It was the bin with the bomb, or one of them at least. This one looked smaller, more compact. He watched, flabbergasted, zombies advancing, Lip focused on the bin, and wondered how he could be so fucking stupid.

“You never wanted to wipe out the zombies,” he said, horrible realization dawning slowly.

Lip was busily fiddling with something inside the plastic container. He didn’t seem to hear Mickey.

“This is all some bullshit way for you to go out in a blaze of glory.” Lip paused at that. “You don’t have some kind of grand plan.”

Finally, Lip turned around, still on his knees. For the first time, his eyes were cool, calculating. Familiar. They were still milky and stared in Mickey’s direction without really seeing anything, but they felt cunning nonetheless. He smiled tiredly.

“Yeah, bravo, dude. Attention, MacArthur Genius Grant, Mickey’s cracked the case.”

The zombies were only a block away now.

At the bottom of the plastic bin, Lip was pulling something free. It was made of nylon, and it took Mickey a second to place it, but then—it was a backpack.

“Go back to Ian,” Lip told Mickey. “If you hurry, you can get in the car and get out of here.”

“No, I can’t leave you,” Mickey argued, somewhat ridiculously, because he knew if Lip didn’t get follow Mickey to the car in the next sixty seconds he would leave his ass behind.

“Yes, you can. I needed the ride, but I’m here now. Ian needs you. _Go_.”

“Ian needs you too!” Mickey didn’t add that if he was being really honest, the whole group could use Lip too. Mickey himself wouldn’t mind having the old Lip around again, helping shoulder the burden of every agonizing decision it took to keep eleven people alive.

At that, Lip whirled around. He didn’t seem to care that the zombies were still advancing, faster now, but Mickey was fucking well aware.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to commit suicide when a group of people find out you’re smart and can manufacture weapons for them?” Lip tapped his left eyebrow, just above where the scars started. “Really fucking hard, let me tell you. Amanda caught me last time. Told me to focus on the bombs instead.” He chuckled humorlessly. “The fuck do we need bombs for, now?”

“So you just—wanted to die?” Up head, the zombies shambled faster. Mickey groaned. “Fuck, then why didn’t you just quietly do something back at the settlement, why did you have to be so fucking melodramatic about it?”

“Amanda keeps eyes on me all the time. She can’t let me go.” Lip smiled then. He leaned in, scooped out a small contraction from the bin, and started gingerly stuffing it into the backpack. “And maybe I didn’t want to die in the country. I’m not a fucking farmer.” He zipped the bag and put it on his back.

Mickey felt tears in his eyes. They might have been from frustration. He felt like he was spinning down a cyclone of horror, watching Lip methodically plan his own demise.

“Why are you doing this?” he begged.

Lip stepped around the bin and faced Mickey squarely. “Mandy’s dead.”

It took all Mickey had not to reach over and shake Lip until the teeth rattled in his head. Far be it from Mickey to belittle his sister’s influence, her far-reaching legacy, his own guilt that every day he was alive was a day that moved him farther from his sister. He may have never really realized how much Lip cared for Mandy. He wasn’t sure how it all brought them here, though, to this moment, with Lip standing before him with explosives strapped to his back. 

“I know she’s dead,” Mickey reassured him shakily, “I know. I know you loved her. But you can’t just give up, man. People need you." 

Lip grimaced. “That’s not the point." He threw an arm wide to encompass the zombies, so close now, watching Lip and his grandstanding with laser-like intensity. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Mandy was just the beginning. If Ian dies, if you die, if Fiona or the kids die, it doesn’t matter, because it’s all going to _happen_. The world is over, man. Those people at the settlement, they want me to give them some grand plan for survival, for revenge, but I _can't_. There’s nothing that we’re living toward, we’re just surviving til the next day, til the next and the next, until we’re dead and it’s over, and the zombies inherit the earth.” He laughed, the sound tired and weak. “Or maybe they don’t, maybe they die out too, but it _doesn’t matter_. Nothing does.”

He looked so helpless. Lip had always been small, closer to Mickey’s height, but right now he appeared to curl in on himself, his shoulders delicate and narrow, the big backpack nearly dwarfing him.

There was a sharp crash from behind, and Mickey whirled to see a new pack of zombies caging them in from the other end of the street, coming at them from both ends like velociraptors.

Despite his terror, Mickey marveled in a split second, watching the zombies work together. These were an entirely different breed than what the ones they’d been dealing with last summer. He could see smaller, weaker zombies in the back, a few stronger, snarling ones leading the charge. And, he realized, they were taking to each other. There were no words, but the spits and snarls and growls clearly meant something, directing one or several of the zombies at a time to move in a different direction. Most of the zombies didn’t even look hostile; they were hiding behind the main leaders, watching the proceedings with interest instead of blood thirst.

Mickey wondered what they’d been eating with no humans. He wondered how they’d gotten this way, if this was evolution, or something different.

He turned one last time to Lip, who was watching him bleakly. He had something in his hand, connected by a wire to the backpack. Mickey would bet his life it was a detonator.

“Go back to Ian, man. Go live out the rest of your pointless lives together. At least you have that.”

Mickey didn’t wait. He turned and sprinted back to the Prius.

He passed close to the zombies, and one in the front took a swipe at him. It didn’t come close, and the zombie who made the move didn’t follow him. He seemed focused on Lip. They all did. There was a distinct air of...annoyance. Like they were made at him for disturbing them.

And then Mickey didn’t have time to analyze anymore. He scrambled into the car, shaking hands struggling with the key in the ignition.

He threw the car into reverse, peeling out of the side street. He hoped to god he didn’t hit any zombies because he doubted the tiny green car could take it.

But the zombies moved in a wave out of his way. They didn’t attack him. They clearly didn’t see him as a threat.

Instead, they were focused on Lip. Lip, who was grinning, backpack on his back, flare forgotten on the street beside him.

Mickey watched him in his rearview, clearing the zombie hoard, but then he hit the gas, swerving around the few roadblocks.

He didn’t want to be anywhere nearby when...it happened.

He was three blocks away when he heard it. A huge, incredible boom that made the dashboard shake, the odometer vibrating behind the glass. His ears rang.

He kept driving. He couldn't think about it, but he couldn't keep it out of his head either, the more distance he put between himself and what Lip had done to himself.

Lip was gone, dead in the same city that had taken Mandy away.

 

***

 

Ian was pacing outside the lean-to. He walked in a neat line from one corner, turned on his heel, and marched back

He’d woken up that morning and known before he opened his eyes that Mickey had left. He’d gone looking for him anyway, Danny trailing behind him like a shadow, but as soon as he saw Amanda, standing outside Lip’s lab, an irritated look on her face, he’d known. 

“I told him it wasn’t safe,” Amanda muttered.

“Mickey said you needed supplies,” Ian said dully.

That appeared to puzzle Amanda for a moment. “We have plenty of supplies. We found a Costco last week.”

That had only made Ian angrier, that Lip had lied, that Mickey had fallen for it. Iggy was equally nervous but unable to stay near Ian, feeding off his anxiety. Instead he and Fiona took the babies to visit Kev, who was sitting up and responsible today according to Veronica, leaving Ian to stew alone in front of the lean-to. 

Well, alone except for Danny.

He stared at the wall of the lean-to every time he passed, reasonably confident that if he could just harness all his furious energy he could burn a hole through the canvas fabric with just his glare.

The little boy sat on the ground across from the tent, chewing absently on granola, watching Ian pace. Danny. He didn’t seem to have any objection to it. He didn’t have any objection to anything really, unless it involved letting Ian out of his sight. Which Ian didn’t mind necessarily, since he’d grown immediately attached to the boy as well. It made pacing angrily, worrying over Mickey while also fantasizing how best he would strangle him to death, swearing to himself and grimacing, slightly more complicated.

He had a feeling he was scaring Danny, but he’d refused to go with Liam or Fiona earlier, determined to stay with Ian.

Up by the gate, there was a commotion. Ian could hear a car approaching, and he froze on the spot. A wave of dread washed over him. Mickey was hurt. Mickey had gotten hurt, or bit, or something horrible, and he’d barely made it back with Lip, and now Mickey was going to die and it was all his own fucking fault. Well, his and Lip’s. He steeled himself.

He waited.

But when Mickey turned the corner, starting toward the lean-to, he didn’t look injured, aside from his head drooping slightly.

“What did you do,” Ian asked, shock making the words dull.

As he looked at Mickey, he saw that he’d been crying.

“Mickey?”

He hurried over from his pacing to Mickey’s side, instant worry dissolving his earlier anger. “Are you okay?” He checked him over quickly, looking for a wound, and finding none, cupped a hand around his cheek. “I’m really fucking pissed at you, but right now you’re freaking me out.” He shook his cheek gently. “Mick?”

“Where is everyone?” Mickey asked dully.

“They’re with Kev, or they’re helping organize supplies. Danny’s with me.” He pulled Mickey closer, trying to get him to meet Ian’s face. Mickey stared flatly over his shoulder at the cot, where Danny was no doubt watching them avidly.

“Danny?" 

“I thought you liked that name. Couldn’t keep calling him, ‘hey, kid.’” Ian smiled weakly, but Mickey didn’t respond. “Hey. What’s going on?” He glanced behind Mickey out the tent door. “Where’s Lip?”

Mickey fell forward against Ian, collapsing in slow motion. Ian felt a slight pressure and looked down to see Danny, reaching up to grasp Mickey’s shirt, a fierce frown on his face.

“Hi, Danny,” Mickey said, muffled. Then, after a long sigh, louder, more resigned, “Lip’s dead.”

Ian was confused. “I thought you were just going on a supply run.”

“I thought we were too.”

“Then what happened? How did—was it the zombies?”

“No, it wasn’t the zombies. It was Lip.” Finally, Mickey looked up, meeting Ian’s gaze. His eyes were wet. “He’s been making a bomb. Him and Amanda, they wanted to fight them.”

“Fight?” That didn’t make any sense. All the zombies were in Chicago. There didn’t seem to be any risk of them out here in the country.

“He took one of the explosives with today. I think he’s been planning this for a while.” Mickey wiped tiredly at his eyes. “He’s dead.”

“Lip’s dead?” Fiona was standing in the doorway. She must have come to check on Ian, as she’d been doing all day when he’d refused to get out of bed after finding Mickey gone that morning. She’d been so worried about Ian. Now, her face was ashen. She looked ready to fall over.

Ian met her eye but didn’t know to say. Mickey didn’t even turn. “We have to tell Amanda,” he said, resolved.

Everything felt like it was happening at a great distance, and yet, Ian still began moving immediately to help Mickey, to do something to take that horrible, deadened look off his face. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll come with—Fiona?” Fiona blinked a few times, still too stunned to speak. “Watch Danny, okay?”

Fiona seemed grateful for the distraction. She crossed the floor like a ghost, sitting on the cot beside the little boy, who had gone very, very still as the anguish in the room rose. She smiled crookedly at him, reacting almost unconsciously to the baby. “Hey, big guy. Danny, huh? Suits you. I like it.” Her voice caught in her throat, coming out harsh and croaky. Danny’s little eyebrows came together as he watched Fiona in concern.

With that, he followed Mickey out of the tent. They slid into a few tents, looking for weapons. Something about the settlement felt off, with Lip gone. Like their secret guide through the camp was gone, even if he'd been a liability himself.

People were watching them as they passed. Ian didn’t know if the news had already spread so fast, or if they could sense the trouble on the horizon like wildebeest on the plain, sighting the thunder from far off, growing tense and watchful at the threat. Either way he kept close to Mickey’s back, heading toward Lip’s lab tent in the back.

Amanda was waiting inside. Her back was hunched. Before Mickey could open his mouth, she spoke. "Lip's gone."

Mickey took a tentative step closer, then stopped. "I'm sorry."

"He shouldn't have gone."

"He wasn't well," Mickey tried. "He was depressed, he wanted to, well. He wasn't well."

She turned around. "That's not true." Her face was white, haggard. Her eyes burned brighter than Lip's ever did. "We have to finish what he started." She stepped toward the back, toward a high stand of shelves, stacked tall with different colored storage containers, small plastic bins.

Ian stared at them, squinting. They reminded him of pictures he'd seen in pamphlets from the recruiter in his neighborhood, at ROTC. IEDs, in Iraq, or Afghanistan. It all suddenly made sense. “You made more bombs?” Ian’s mouth fell open. He couldn’t believe Lip would be so careless, but then, Lip wasn’t really Lip at the end there.

“Of course Lip did,” Amanda spat. “How could we take out a city of zombies with just one bomb? He was going to test it, and then take the rest out and finish the job.”

Mickey shook his head. “Amanda. Lip was never planning on coming back here.”

For the first time, Amanda’s stubborn resolve waned. “What?” Her voice shook slightly.

“He planned to die there. I don’t know what else he wanted you to do with the bombs, but he wasn’t coming back here. He planned to die out there.”

“No he didn’t.” Amanda shook her head roughly, hair flinging back on her face at the sharp movement.

“He did. Amanda.” Mickey’s voice softened, like he was trying to break the news easy to her. “I saw him. I saw his face. He wanted to die.”

As Amanda continued shaking her head in denial, Ian stepped closer. He held his empty wrist out at waist level, trying to calm her.

“Lip is gone,” he said. The words tore at something deep in his belly, but he made himself say them, hear them. _Believe_ them. “He’s gone, and we have to get rid of the rest of it. It’s dangerous.”

“We’re not getting rid of it. This was all Lip’s work. This was his _life’s work_.”

Mickey leveled his gun at her. She stepped back slowly to the stack of plastic bins, reaching for the one at the top. Mickey yelled something but in a flash, she had the mechanism switch on top uncovered, fingers hovering over the entire contraption.

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“No, _you’re_ crazy, to have this opportunity to take the zombies out, to make everything _right_ , and to be too afraid to use it!” Amanda didn’t have the same bright, wild gleam to her eyes that Lip did. Instead she looked stoic. Resigned. “This is what we’re meant to do.”

At his side, Ian could see Mickey hesitate. She was up against the weapons. If Mickey shot and missed, or shot and propelled her backwards, she might trigger the whole heap and kill everyone anyway. He had never been that impressive of a shot anyway. He was worried about hurting anyone else.

In a strange, calm burst of fury, of anger that this girl before him claimed to understand who Lip was, when all she'd really known was a miserable, desperate shadow of the Lip Ian had known all his life—Ian knew that there was only one option.

Barely pausing to aim, letting his instincts drive him, he brought the handgun up and squeezed the trigger. He caught Amanda right in the wrist, high enough that the bullet came out the bone and sinew on the other side and went right above the plastic bin of explosives. She shrieked, pulling her hand down, staggering slightly. As soon as she took the step forward, just an inch or two clear of the bombs, Ian took a step to the right and shot again, hitting her in the chest, angling down so any stray bullet shards would hit the ground, not the wall where the bombs were stacked.

It was all over in a few seconds. There was yelling outside the tent, but inside, there was only ringing silence. 

Mickey turned in Ian in stunned disbelief. “Ian.”

Ian swallowed, flicking the safety on the gun. It felt suddenly hot and uncomfortable in his hand. He set it on the long wooden lab table, taking a step back.

“Ian, it’s okay,” Mickey was saying, but it sounded distant.

He’d never killed another person before. He’d shot zombies, and he knew those were technically people too, but it was different. This was different. Amanda lay curled at a strange angle on the floor, blood pooling beneath her.

“Ian.” Mickey’s voice was like an echo.

Ian just stared down at the strange, stern girl who had brought a camp together just outside of Peoria on her own, who had obviously loved Ian’s brother with single-minded intensity, even if he could never return it

All at once, he longed for the disconnectedness he’d been worried was building inside him, because right now there was _no_ separation, he was _right there_ , this was all happening _right_ in front of him, and without a thought he turned on his heel, marched out of the tent, fell to his knees and started to hyperventilate.

Mickey was at his side in an instant.

“Ian, it’s okay,” Mickey said, grabbing him firmly by the shoulders to shake once, sharply, “ _Ian_. You risked your life to save your family, and this entire camp.”

“I wasn’t even thinking about them. I was just angry at her. I was just angry that she thought she knew Lip, that she thought _that person_ who he was at the end was Lip.” He looked down. "I didn't do it for him though. I just lost my temper."

Mickey rolled his eyes, looking fond. “Ian. God, you fucking asshole. Just—I don’t care why you do the things you do. Or, wait. Yes I do, of course I care what you’re _thinking_ ,” he fluttered a hand in the direction of Ian’s brain, then ran it through his hair, frustrated, “I care about why, but—the most important thing to me, at the end of the world—fuck, there are zombies, Ian. Goddamn zombies.”

“I didn’t even think about her. I just killed her,” Ian said softly.

Mickey laughed, a touch hysterically. “What happened to army idiot I knew and loved?” He pulled Ian close, rubbing a shaking hand down his hair. “You think fucking army assholes stop and consult their fucking feelings every fucking second? No, they get the job done, or they did, back when there _was_ an army, and they fucking dealt with all the feelings shit later.”

Ian frowned, trying to follow the thread, and Mickey made an aggravated sound, squeezing Ian’s shoulders.

“So you do what you need to do, and don’t worry about why, as long as you’re doing what’s right for you and us and our family, alright?” He glared at Ian, fierce and desperate and like he was trying to climb inside Ian, keep him sane and secure. He relaxed slightly, a small smile curling up one side of his mouth. “And then you can come talk to me about feelings shit later.” Mickey sobered. “Even the big stuff, the scary shit you don’t understand or can’t explain. Especially that. I can’t bring you to some fancy doctor, shit, couldn’t fucking afford it before I had to, but I’ll be here for you. No matter what. We’ll ride this out together.”

It was possibly the longest speech Ian had ever heard from Mickey, and in retrospect he might have expected to rib him a little for the intensity, maybe dole out some light teasing in the face of a Milkovich earnestly declaring himself.

Instead, Ian felt his nose begin to burn. Then his mouth began wobbling. He pressed his lips together, horrified, the hot, choking feeling in his throat rising.

“Hey, Ian, hey,” Mickey crooned. He sounded slightly alarmed. “It’s okay, hey, I didn’t mean to make you sad. Sh, hey. Shh.” He petted at Ian’s hair, squeezing the back of his hot nape in a hard grip. He looked panicked the more upset Ian got, and Ian couldn’t comfort him because he was too busy trying not to fall apart.

Finally Mickey yanked him forward, wrapped his arms around the narrow span of Ian’s back, holding him tight. “Okay, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

Someone was making an ugly sobbing sound, and Ian registered that it was him, he was fucking blubbering all over his boyfriend, and shit, this was the _worst_. He couldn’t stop though. It looked like he was just going to have to ride this emotional wave out to the end, goddamnit.

After what felt like an eternity he started to catch his breath. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, trying to surreptitiously wipe his nose on Mickey’s shirt.

“Don’t be sorry.” Mickey shifted. “And don’t fucking wipe your snot on my clothes.”

Ian flushed guiltily. “Sorry.”

“What did I just say—” He cut himself off on a tight sigh. He pulled back and held the edge of his grubby T-shirt, bringing a corner up to Ian’s face. “If you fucking tell anyone I did this I swear to god, you’ll wish the zombies got you.”

Then, with painstaking care, he wiped the tears and snot off Ian’s face in soft, slow sweeps. Ian could only stand and endure in stunned silence. By the time Mickey was done, Ian was so surprised he didn’t feel like crying anymore.

“Wow. Thanks.”

Mickey gave him a solemn look. “I think we’ve gone Full Gay.”

That startled a snorting laugh out Ian, and then Mickey was cackling at the snort, and they were both falling all over each other, laughing so hard they were wheezing.

When Ian settled down, he saw a crowd was starting to gather. Most of the people were from the camp. Iggy was holding back a few angry individuals, but for the most part, people looked afraid. They watched Ian and Mickey with trepidation, like they thought they were going to attack the others next, like lions eating the young of a pride they took over.

Mickey pulled Iggy aside. "Find some people you can trust. I need you to clean out that lab and get everything far, far away from here."

Iggy looked intrigued, but didn't argue. He stepped aside to let them pass. 

Not knowing what exactly to do himself, Ian let Mickey guide him away, back to the lean-to.

He heard people whispering, but no one tried to stop them. Maybe they’d been as afraid of Amanda as they now were of Ian and Mickey. Maybe they were just looking for someone to protect them, like back in the neighborhood.

Fiona was waiting for them, with Liam and Debbie and Carl, Danny breaking free from the grip of her hand to run their way. Ian expected him to jump at him, but to his surprise, he leaned into Mickey.

“Nobody likes a clingy kid,” Mickey mumbled, picking Danny up anyway.

It was the middle of the afternoon, but Ian let Mickey guide him inside and set him on a cot. He brought another nearer, and lay Danny down, who seemed content to turn on his side so he could watch them both, eyes darting from face to face.

Ian wondered vaguely if Danny would ever talk again.

“We should be helping him talk again,” he told Mickey.

“Alright,” Mickey agreed soothingly, “we’ll tackle that tomorrow. Let’s just chill, for now.”

They curled together on the cot, everything too small, but it took a while with Mickey pressed beside him for Ian to feel like his heart was beating normal again. He wondered who was cleaning up the mess in the lab tent.

Where he’d killed Amanda.

Where Lip used to work, who was also dead.

Finally, Ian sighed. “Tell me everything that happened with Lip.”

It was a long moment before Mickey spoke. Ian glanced over and saw that Danny had drifted off to sleep in the long, uneventful quiet beforehand. His mouth was open a little, his cheek squashed on his pillowed hands.

The sight made Ian’s chest feel better still, his heart lighter. It reminded him he was still a person after all, no matter his own ups and downs.

“There's not much more to tell." Mickey tugged at his overgrown hair. Made a soft, sad clicking sound with his tongue. Then, "Lip said—he said, well, that there was nothing to live for anymore. That even trying to survive after the zombies was pointless, because we all had an expiration date.”

It was almost harder to accept that Lip had been so miserable, than to reconcile the fiery, crazed certainty of his doomsday belief. Ian felt his eyes prickling, his nose burning. His brother was a pragmatist, and yet he was never able to think his way out of hopelessness.

Ian couldn’t be entirely sure Lip had been wrong.

He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud until Mickey was gaping at him.

He was still surprised when Mickey sat up on the cot, shoving his hands onto Ian’s shoulders to hold him down. He swung a leg over, pinning him down, glaring down angrily. Now Ian was the one gaping.

“You fucking—fuck you, Ian!”

“Mick, I didn’t mean anything. I’m sorry,” Ian tried to say, immediately regretful at causing the starkly devastated look on Mickey’s face, but Mickey wasn’t hearing it, working steadily to a Ukrainian boil, face reddening as he started to rant.

“Back before, in the neighborhood, with all the shit we had to deal with, my dad and your dad and our crazy fucking families, you think that had any point to it? Fuck, we weren’t merit scholars, we were just two guys messing around, and there was no higher purpose to that. But it made me happy then. And it makes me happy now. So _fuck you_ if you can’t appreciate that.”

"Okay," Ian whispered. When Mickey didn't seem to believe him, he repeated louder, more firmly, "Okay."

With a huff, Mickey settled back beside him.

Ian heard his voice drift out into the quiet of the tent almost like it was someone else’s. There was so much to do outside the tent, so much waiting for them when they finally emerged. “So what do we do now?”

Against Ian’s side, Mickey huffed out a long-suffering breath. “Carry on living our pointless, post-apocalyptic lives, I guess.” Despite his words, Mickey sounded light, almost hopeful. Ian didn’t know how he managed to do that.

He never would have thought, back in the neighborhood, that Mickey would be the one to focus on life’s simple pleasures, but then, they weren’t the same people anymore. Ian was still uneasy about his own mind, after watching his brother fall into depression and despair so easily.

Ian rolled his eyes anyway, even though Mickey couldn’t really see him. He’d meant that he was worried about little Danny, if they could afford to add another vulnerable member to their tribe, and about Kev’s recovery with his leg, and how he and his siblings would come to terms with what had come to pass with Lip, if they would ever be able to. He was worried about whether their group was going to stay in Peoria, if they could trust the rest of the survivors in this settlement, or if they would be better striking out again for territory unknown.

And yet for now, just lying here pointlessly with Mickey—“That actually sounds really nice,” Ian said honestly.

He relaxed backward onto the cot, readjusted his hold on Mickey in his arms, and settled in for a nap.

 

***

 

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Mentions of suicidal thoughts with one off-screen scene of assisted suicide; references to previous violence 
> 
> Well here it is guys! Hope it was worth the wait. It was a fun little journey, writing this sequel to OMDB, which was my first fanfic ever. My writing has changed in a lot of ways, and the more I tried to make this sequel conform to the original tone and style, the more I struggled, so I decided to just let this weird little sequel be what it wanted to be. And now I feel like it almost leaves itself open for yet _another_ sequel. Which is probably unlikely. Alas. So feel free to make up your own headcanons of Ian and Mickey bickering and raising little silent Danny all on their own!
> 
> Thanks for all your support! You're the best. :)
> 
> TUMBLAAA: ohjafeeljadefinitelyfeel.tumblr.com


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